nice knife work /benji + mav + killer [clue]

The one thing the whole world knows about Maverick: if he bites you, there's no one to blame but yourself.

Boy moving through the world like a walking warning, with the same slant to his smile and tilt to his head that his good for nothing father had. Maverick wears a short chain around his neck with a dagger pendant, stacked amongst two other, shorter chained necklaces. They catch the light as much as Maverick's light eyes do when he takes another step into the kitchen, anger bright as soon as he walked in and saw Benji standing there.

Maverick gave it away the second he stepped foot on the tile, was ready to attack the moment he saw the other.

Benji looks pathetic standing there, hands raised; Maverick doesn't trust him for a second, feels like everything is spinning out of control and there's nothing he can do to stop it. The other boy meets viciousness with narrow eyes, collecting and arranging his face. It drives Maverick closer to the edge, a swath of feelings he's never been in control of taking root; it sort of feels like his feet are going to give out underneath him at any moment.

The knife wobbles uncomfortably in the air where he has it levied in Benji's direction, arms weakened from weeks neglecting the pottery wheel.

Gooseflesh prickles all over Maverick's skin when Benji spits Poole at him like some sort of insult; something catches under his diaphragm, the realization his own name can be used as a weapon against him.

"Don't get ugly," he spits with a savage rage. It sits thick in his throat, burns in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't have time for whatever this bullshit show Benji wants to put on is. "Don't even— Naomi needs help, not someone preening about how Maverick saw her last; he's the one screaming at the top of his lungs she needs help in the first place. Not to mention Presley is still somewhere out there and Maverick never figured out the right way to actually tell him he fucking matters and he's never even liked Benji and— "Shut UP," — "what did you do to her?"

"You shut the fuck up, Benji Rowland," he presses in closer until the knife stops shaking, willing his limbs to steady. The words are a low grumble in his chest, his only attempt at control before he gives it. up. "Cut the shit and tell me what you know. Where is she? We were looking for bandages upstairs and she fucking screamed bloody goddamn murder only to be NOWHERE IN FUCKING SIGHT!" It hurts to say out loud, nausea rolling through him, rocking his body off kilter. He thinks about the bottle of liquor he'd been nursing earlier, and wishes that he hadn't been such an idiot. If he could go back and break it over his own skull instead of drinking it to the dregs he would. "I find it hard to believe no one else heard."

For all of the things that make Benji Rowland desirable, there's a list just as long that make him not. Make your way past the pristine surface and you'll find that there are vital pieces missing. Blame his childhood, the solitude and the silence, the conversations he'd have with the walls because no one else was there, whatever.

But anyone else who knew Maverick would have the sense not to stick their hand in the tiger's mouth. Thing is, it's not that Benji can't see the rows of sharp teeth, it's that to him they're sort of beautiful. He's a boy that has spent a lifetime burning for sins that he must have made in a past life, he's never shied away from pain. He knows what fire feels like already, it's the other stuff that fascinates him.

And even with Maverick accusing him of murder, with the sharp end of a fire poker in his face, something in him steadies, it always does. But he's been close to death more often than some. He's touched it, held its brightness in the palm of his hand and then he closed his fist over it and realised what most people don't find out until they're much older, there are worse things.

There are bedrooms that lock from the outside. There are blackout shutters to keep out any traces of light and there are nights that never end. Then always, there's pain, everlasting.

"You shut the fuck up, Benji Rowland," Mav says. It's a zinger.

Benji's brow furrows as Maverick yaps at him like a dog that's been let loose but everyone knows it's bad to let Maverick off on his own, he's got a reputation for leaving a mess in his wake. The fact that Naomi isn't with him is actually worrying because if not her, then that other one should be here too, he's never far from Mav.

But this hardly seems fair. Maverick is drunk and while Benji isn't exactly sober, he'd only had a couple beers and the coffee is already cutting through that nicely. This is suddenly just as tedious, just as pointless as anything else.

"Where'd your leash go?" he asks in response, tone bland again as he lowers the knife, "Presley." Maverick seems too rabid to actually communicate with and having Presley for a roommate has at least given Benji practice with him.

Mav's past talking though, back to accusations barely veiled by the thinnest of tones. He knows this sort of game better. Dinner table conversations where his family refused to talk about Scarlet and what happened to her. His mother never even asked Benji where he was when she was walking home alone. It wouldn't go nice with the Syrah she was drinking.

But Maverick's pointing a finger in a way that no one else has all year and it's almost refreshing.

Except the shouting. Benji winces as the ceiling lights start to scream softly above them with Mav's raised voice. The volume cuts into him sharper than any knife could, gutting his brain, dressing everything up in a brightness that's always been too overwhelming to hold all at once.

"Say it," he dares softly, voice tight, a curious feeling blooming under his skin like heat, "Just say it Maverick. I know it's what everyone thinks."

He smiles then, too wide, it feels more like a seam being ripped than anything else, it feels like a gaping wound. It'd be a neat little answer if it was Benji. It'd make sense, he knows that, grieving boy getting back at the world for what it did to the person he loved.

If only he knew how to feel anything that intensely.

"Yes, tell us what you did to her!"

The voice is garbled, like a person speaking through a rain cloud. Benji shuts his eyes for a brief moment, something wraps its hand around his throat. He can't place it- fear? No. Perhaps it's just self-preservation holding his tongue. He used to have that, then everyone he pretended not to care about started dying.

When he opens his eyes again, the source of the voice is still there. It's standing in the doorframe that Mav only just came through. Benji looks at this person, at the blood on them and the way they stand there like anyone might and somehow it's a relief. This nightmare, this spectre haunting them, they're nothing special. They're flesh and bone like the rest of them.

"Impeccable timing," Benji acknowledges. If he's already got one hand in a tiger's maw, might as well stick his other in too.

He uses the time his stupid comment made to look the figure over, harsh overhead lighting creates extra shadows in the folds of their disguise. It makes it hard to distinguish the rough shape beneath the mask.

He picks his coffee up and has another sip. It's still a little too hot but the bitter taste of stale coffee is enough to keep him tethered. It buys more time, not enough. The fire poker he put down to brew coffee is still close. If he could rely on Maverick to back him up, then he'd have a fighting chance.

That would mean having to trust though, not his forte.

Benji's gaze flicks from the shadow to Maverick. Where there should be fear, there's just this cold, deranged feeling eating through the heat that was there beneath his skin only moments ago. It takes him a moment to realise that the lack of feeling is a feeling in itself.

It's beyond anger but it's not rage either.

Hatred, maybe.

Benji looks at the killer again and the feeling festers. He pushes off the counter, the knife and the poker now in either hand. It doesn't matter if Maverick is there to back him up or if he turns tail and runs. The indifference that has held Benji so tightly for his entire life is losing its hold on him.

It's something to do with the height, with the way the shadow looms, takes up so much space in his vision until it's the only thing he can truly see anymore. That's what she always wanted though, wasn't it?

If his vision fell elsewhere, she made certain to fix that.

The poker leaves his hand. The sound it makes when it hits the tiled ground vibrates through him, driving him into madness with the resulting pain but he was there already, his train of thought dragging him past the point of no return. The realisation tastes like ash. He's afraid to verbalize it because once he does, it's all over, everything is.

He gazes at the mask, already hollow before the name even departs from him. "Stells," he greets her simply, aching. His hand raises to thumb her masked cheek even as he points a knife at the spot he always thought her heart was.