Notes:

I messed around with indentation a lot with this fic...unfortunately doesn't allow you to do that. So if you'd like to read this fic the way it was intended, please read it at I_prefer_the_term_antihero on Ao3, on your computer!

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She can hear her own breath. A tattered, panicked, rasping, gasping. Each inhale clawing at the air as if it were a rope. Each exhale another string in the rope fraying. Her throat burning as her lungs try to hold onto the air slipping through.

Red.

She had heard stories about the color red. Old wives' tales? Maybe. Close enough to the town called truth or miles away from it? Too soon to tell.

A ghost. A black cloak smattered in red. A moon-struck blade. A moon-struck man. A lunatic.

(Or perhaps he was too sane.)

Some specter of a time-gone-wrong. Half alive. Half in the grave. The abyss gnawing at his heart with an incessant ticking.

Alive enough to kill.

Dead enough to not care.

A demon. A hellish thing with its strings around his soul. Allowed in because of some ugly truth and some pretty lies. A chain, one end around his wrist, the other in the abyss.

And the color red.

Red on his clothes. Red on his knife.

Red in his eyes.

Not just a metaphor for a clouded purpose.

Eyes really and truly red. Like in a fantasy world. Like a dream. Like a nightmare. A human, with eyes the color of roses, and just as thorny. As if all that death coalesced into his gaze and made them shine with the fire of hell.

You'd see nothing but the color, until all the red inside you was on the pavement.

She'd heard the stories of the Red-Eyed Specter.

Heard.

Believed?

Not enough. Not enough to make her cower in her room at night. Not enough to scare her into rushing home as fast as she could when the sun went down.

She had a family, you know.

But belief is an obstinate thing. Doesn't like to be told what to do. Even when what it's being told to do is get out of the road because there's a train coming.

Her feet, her side, barked at her with sharp stings. But she couldn't listen to their demands.

Because those red eyes were right behind her.

Or at least she had to assume so, because guessing any less, because hesitating, turning around to check, could result in the red in her fleeing her body as if her skin were a cage, black overtaking her world, and her universe going white.

She had seen them though. Those eyes. Her heart assured her with every frantic beat it was certain.

First that feeling; her brain told her she was alone, the hair on the back of her neck said otherwise. An alleyway to the right, one she walked by everyday, and never held anything more than trash and a few stray cats. But the chills chasing each other down her spine chittered that today that was not all. Her heart sped up to the tune Don't look. Don't look. Don't look.

She looked.

And there they were, like they'd been there all along, and just wanted to say Good evening, nice to meet you. I'm the Red-Eyed Ghost, you may have heard of me. And you, my dear, are my prey. Two red eyes, two pins aimed at her own eyes.

And she had run. There was no other choice. No other salesman provided the option of surviving till the morning.

"My, you're in quite a rush."

And she hesitated.

Looked up.

A man was leaning against the side of a nearby building, the moonlight polishing his features, the shadows steaming his cloak.

Black.

Black shadows. Black cloak.

White.

White skin. White hair; messy, hanging limp over his shoulder, covering his eyes.

"Th-Th-The Red-Eyed Specter!" Her unraveling voice called, save me! written beneath every torn syllable.

He looked in either direction, considering the options, put a hand on his chin.

"There's no one here but us, Ojousama. Certainly not any horrifying chains."

She stopped, breath and heartbeat latching onto those words like a lifesaver in the water. Her gaze bolting in each direction—from the cobblestones before her, to the buildings around her, slowly to the road behind her.

He was right.

The black that had swallowed the path she was taking, the glowing red—two holes in the fabric of the universe, glowing with abyssal light—were gone.

She fell to her knees, letting the air enter her chest and lower her back to earth slowly and safely, her heartbeat still unable to let go of the idea that a ghost was just behind her. Her aching feet thanked her, but her body shook, and nausea filled her stomach. She closed her eyes; now that she knew blinking wouldn't result in her demise, trying to make her body realize it could calm down.

He took a step closer.

"Still, it must have been quite the convincing imposter, to give you a fright like that."

Two steps closer.

"I shudder to think what sort of monster"—

Three steps closer.

—"might be so cruel as to"—

Four steps closer.

—"make a pretty lady like you cry."

She coughed. "I-I-I thought I saw—"

Five steps.

"A pair of glowing red eyes in the dark?"

Six steps.

"Yes...I can imagine/that would be terrifying."

Seven steps.

He was close now.

"But, unless I am mistaken, there's nothing here now."

Eight.

"I'm sure everything's alright. You're safe now."

(Did the words reach his eyes?)

Nine.

She could feel these steps in front of her.

She blinked, her eyes taking him in one bite at a time.

His shoes—

(Red)

Next the edge of his cloak, tattered and, though it may have black once…it wasn't anymore.

(Red)

There was something that spilled on it enough to dye it.

(Red)

Something that died enough to to spill it.

(Red)

Before it hit the safety ground, her breath caught, caught the air.

He crouched down in front of her, offered his hand to help her up.

"You must be cold. Why don't we find a safe place to take you? A lady like you shouldn't be out in the dark so late."

Next the handle of a weapon at his side: a mouth that could open and reveal its gleaming teeth if only he summoned it.

Her eyes were stubborn, they didn't want to greet his. But… not because they were shy.

(Red.)

Because, though there was a part of her that found his words as calming and sweet as a good cup of tea…her heart knew what her gaze would find in his.

Red.

His eyes were red.

Red like roses.

Red like hell and all its demons.

Red like blood.

Red like death.

And in the night air they had a faint glow. Like something unearthly, something hellish, some from the abyss, possessed his gaze. Like it was his eyes, and not his blade that devoured the souls of his victims; his blade just did the negotiations.

She shrieked, stumbling back.

He blinked, the red flickering. "Whatever is the matter, Ojousama?"

"N-No…You…You're…."

"Kevin Regnard." A grin spread across his features, a foul thing, somewhere between completely mad, and a little off base. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"No...No! Please!" She screamed, continuing to back away. Tried to stand. Fell.

Ten steps, eleven steps, twelve.

"I-I have a family! They'll come looking for me!"

This made him pause, and he said his next words like they tasted like the color black.

"I did too."

And for a moment he paused. For a moment something wavered in the red.

Thirteen fourteen fifteen

"Tell me, this family of yours"—

—"When they realize you've gone, what do you think they'll do?"

"No, no I beg you!" she managed to stand this time on her shaking, aching legs, and run like she was eighth notes in a measure.

The next few steps happened so fast she barely heard them.

Eighteenninteentwenty

"Will they mourn you in silence?"

Twenty-one; one hand on her shoulder.

Twenty-two; the other around her side, like he was her partner in this sick dance.

Screams burned, ripped apart her throat. Screams of 'NO' and 'HELP' and 'SOMEONE! ANYONE!' and she tried to twist, to kick, to bite, to somehow escape his grasp.

He was not a ghost. He was far too alive, his touch harsh and unrelenting as life itself.

But she may be one before long.

His breath was warm on her ear, stinking of death and chocolate.

"Or do you think they'd sell their souls to save you?"

She was a pile of wriggling, writhing, squirming screams in his ruthless grasp.

Twenty-three; the knife at her throat, growling and hungry.

"Feed their own friends to the devil for a little more time?"

Tears tracked her face, she tried to rip his cloak, his skin, the air with her nails and wails.

And he didn't cover her mouth.

Let her scream; those she called would only be more fuel for his ever-hungry knife.

She looked up at him, his eyes carving red tracks in her vision, even behind closed eyes, like fireworks.

And now she quieted, blinked at him, spoke to him, not as a ghost, but as the human he is.

"Please...have mercy"

Something darted across his eyes.

Then he looked at her like she was a worthless, ugly thing; just another stitch on the hat he was making out of souls, and there is nothing but heartless red.

She would have liked to have tea with her mother the next morning. She would have liked to kiss that boy a few doors down. She would have liked to tell her brother she was sorry for yelling at him.

The stars were particularly beautiful that night.

Her throat burned from all the breathing. All the pleading. All the screaming.

Her throat burned from this thing nagging to get into her neck, trying to negotiate, digging into it, cutting the rope, severing the ties of air between her lungs and her throat. Her throat—

She would have liked to see the sunrise.

Twenty-four.

Red clouded her vision before her lungs stopped coloring with breath.

Black clouded her vision before her heart stopped singing.

White clouded her vision.

Her head hung limp and half torn on her neck, lulling onto his shoulder.

Kevin pushed her body away from him as if she were clothes he didn't want to wear, letting her body hit the ground with a wet thud, walking away.

"Albus," he said with the same regard one would when telling their friend they could finish the rest of their meal.

He expects to hear the shadowed voice reply, or simply unceremonious crunching and slurping behind him.

Instead, the sloshing, dripping behind him is softer.

He pauses.

Looks down.

Red.

Beneath his feet the blood is seeping towards him.

White.

His shoes, which a moment ago were black, dashed with crimson, are now white and black and purple.

Break jumps forward onto a dry patch of pavement, twisting on his toe as if dancing, turning to see—

The corpse, the woman, a moment ago an empty, motionless shell, is standing. Her head hanging loose and upside down at her shoulders, her eyes open and half-white.

"I had a family. I had a future." The words are echo-y and distorted without breath or heartbeat.

The stain continues spreading. When he tries to jump out of the way again, play hopscotch with the nightmare, a hand reaches out from beneath the waves, grabs his ankle. A crimson print marring his pristine shoes. When he tries to twist free another wraps around his hand, like some twisted show of intimacy. He jerks free, a splotch of red on his thin, pale fingers. He stares at it a second too long.

Beneath the pavement sea, coming up from the depths like serpents, hands become arms, become shoulders, become faces, become people, dyed crimson.

"I had a son." Says a man with a slit in his chest.

"I had a daughter." Says a woman with a gash along her stomach.

He tries to back away, but the talking corpses—their eyes hollow, black sockets, the black tracking tears on their indistinguishable faces—grab him, jump on him, knock him down, sending him into the red, dying his cloak, his shirt, his body, all red. Everything, everything turning red. Even their voices dyed the color of that name.

"…Kevin."

"…Kevin.

"Kevin."

"Kevin."

"Kevin."

"SHUT UP!"

He manages to shove them off, back up, enough to draw his sword. He spins, the blade doing the talking, rushing forward, the red rising with the wind, their heads falling into the kingdom of hearts.

Break re-sheaths his sword.

"Kevin."

His hand reaches for his sword again—his hands caught, covered in the color of killing—but he pauses.

Something about that voice is different.

He knows that voice from other nightmares. From memories that wouldn't let him out of their grasp, even awake.

He turns.

There is a girl, a little girl, standing at the edge of the corpses' realm.

His eye widens, breath catching on the air.

A girl with short blonde hair, a little pink dress and a doll in the crook of her arm.

"Kevin," she says softly, like she always said it so long ago. Like nothing's wrong.

One step closer.

"Ojou…"

Two steps closer.

"sama…"

Three steps closer. He watches her little feet—(she danced for him once)—get closer to the…

Four steps.

"Stay back!" his voice is cracked, and he wants nothing more than to scream the words with everything in him.

She stops.

"What's wrong, Kevin? Don't you want to play with me?"

All he wants to do is rush to her, scoop her up in his arms, and take her as far from the color red as he possibly can. But the moment he touched her, his own hands would dye her.

His nails are digging so deep into his palm that his red is dripping down his fingers, adding to the pool.

Five steps.

"Stop!"

But red has already splashed onto her dress.

Nine steps.

His chest is burning, even though the clock has long since reached zero.

Eleven.

"Don't come any closer!"

His empty eye socket is aching, even though it long since stopped bleeding.

Thirteen.

And the blood has covered her dress.

"Emily!" and her name tastes like blood, and charcoal, and mercury.

Her features twist into a grotesque, dollish smile.

Fifteen.

And she speaks with a dollish voice.

"You killed me."

He raises his voice, but red starts to fill his lungs, and he begins coughing, so much so that he falls to his knees, falling, falling….

When he opens his eye, the scene has shifted. No longer in a city street dyed with death. He's in a girl's room, a checkerboard floor, the walls lined in toys...that little Sinclair girl nothing but a doll on the shelf now.

The Abyss.

A hand wraps around his chest, another crossing his vision, reaching for his eye.

"I did say I wanted the other eye." The Will of the Abyss' voice flutters in his ear.

He tries to whirl around, to knock her to the ground, but she has too much power here, a dark energy is entering him, freezing him in place.

She digs her fingers into his right socket, ripping out his other eye, so he is nothing but a blind doll himself.

He screams, and the air collapses with him onto the floor, and he can still feel the blood—or perhaps water now—despite the change in scenery. And she laughs and laughs and laughs.

"I must say,"—three steps around him—"seeing you like this is quite satisfying, Mr. Hatter." Vincent's voice fluctuates between a child and adult's.

"Shut up."

He laughs, using the forth to kick Break hard in the stomach.

One step. "You always were a jerk," Gilbert spits, much crueler than his usual tone.

"I looked up to you." No movement now, and perhaps this is because Elliot is dyed with the color still.

Five steps.

"Dance for me, will you?" Rufus laughs.

He can't see anything, anyone, but he knows they are all around him, all the people he loved, all the people he scorned. Everyone he knows.

One step

"Break!" This is Oz now. "Come, on, get up!"

Ten steps

"Xerxes Break!" Oscar.

Eleven

Thirteen

"Clown!"

Two

"Xerkkun."

"Xerx!"

At the sound of Reim's voice something in him tears.

Four

"Break!"

At the sound of Sharon's something in him cracks.

Eight

"Xerxes."

Shelly.

And he is broken indeed.

Xerxes Break woke up. And when he opened his eyes—

Black. There was nothing but black.

To erase the dream from the back of his eyelids, to see pink dresses, and green fields, blue skies and orange fires, would have been a gift indeed.

But even when his eyes are open now, there's nothing but black and memory.

And that, one eye stolen from him, color fading from the other slowly, those red eyes that scared and killed so many, going blind, unable to see that red anymore, that is penance.

He can feel his throat burning. He can hear his breathing; a tattered, panicked, rasping, gasping.