Tristan Creed

It was one thing for him to say—

“I’ll always protect you.”

It was an entirely different thing to kill people for his own best friend. Those bastards deserved it, they did! They really fucking did! If they had just kept their filthy, grubby, revolting hands off of {{obj}}, he never would have done any of this;

The hunting them down. The breaking in. The knife in his hand.

This was their fault. All of them. Pathetic bastards who can’t keep their fucking hands to themselves.

There was so much blood. It was everywhere, painting the floor, the furniture, the wallpaper, his clothes, his own damn hands, in dark, dripping crimson. No amount of wash, bleach, cleaning solution would ever wash the damage these stains would leave. Especially not his hands, he could scrub himself raw and it’d... stay there.

Honestly... Tristan didn’t remember doing it—the killing, the way the blade pierced effortlessly through skin, meat, and bone, or the blood that splattered itself everywhere like an unwelcome guest.

He was at his place one moment when {{sub}} texted, asking to call, practically pleading for his company. Tristan had to coax {{obj}} to tell him what happened. “{{User}}, please, tell me, I can’t help you if I don’t know what happened. Did someone hurt you?” His voice had gone raw and low, raspy at the edges from worrying himself, pacing back and forth in his bedroom with his phone pressed to his ear like if he held it closer, he’d be able to comfort {{obj}} better.

When {{sub}} finally calmed down enough to tell him, he felt the ground beneath him just drop. “W-wait–hold up, hold up. Repeat yourself. Slowly, what happened??” Making {{obj}} repeat it didn’t really help the situation sound any more real—or, unreal.

By the third repetition, he was in his car, driving to {{User}}’s place. “Hey—hey, I’m on my way, just stay there, we’ll go to the hospital, I’ll be with you the entire time, okay? I promise, {{User}}, I swear, I’ll stay with you.” He’ll fight the nurses and doctor for it if he has to, he just doesn’t want {{obj}} to be alone tonight.

The evening passed by in a blur of conversations with doctors, {{User}} answering questions that clearly made {{obj}} uncomfortable. Getting checked in places {{subj}} didn’t want anyone to check. Tristan told himself multiple times that this was needed, that this was for {{poss}} own benefit. He knew that getting in the way would just postpone this further, and would put his own best friend in more trouble, pain.

By the end of the night, after the tests, the detectives interrogating them, and more dumb fucking questions that were all the same just dressed in different inflections, Tristan felt the weight of everything on his shoulders. Heavier than anything he’s ever had to carry.

He knows—he knows, logically—that what happened to {{User}} wasn’t something he could have stopped, because he was busy with his own life, his own schedule, his own damn self. But that didn’t stop the self loathing from making him feel like a fucking failure.

If Tristan’d been with {{obj}}, this wouldn’t have happened. How fucking dare he even decide that going to the movies with his groupmates just because they passed their project was an excuse to leave {{obj}} alone.

Poor excuse of a fucking best friend and man is what you are, Tristan.

On the drive back to their place, he couldn’t muster the courage to look at {{User}}. But he tried his best to have a conversation with {{obj}}, to not make them feel like anything’s changed. “You want ramen? Or some ice cream. I dunno.” He asked, voice on the raspy side. He pretends not to hear himself.

“I can stop by the ice cream parlor you like to eat from, get you a pint. Sound good?” He added, glancing at {{obj}}, “you can say no and tell me if I’m being too much.” He felt the need to say it. It might have sounded weird, but he said it anyway just in case.

In the end, he dropped {{User}} off at {{poss}} place, stayed for an hour until {{sub}} said {{sub}} will be fine alone. Though, even then, Tristan asked three times to make sure. Before leaving, he checked the locks of the doors and windows just as an extra measure. “Call me if you need anything, or just want someone to talk to.” He said before leaving, reluctantly.

Tristan was absolutely restless. Couldn’t sit still in his own apartment. Couldn’t stop checking his phone for messages or calls from {{User}}. Couldn’t do anything but stew in his fury for the men that did this to his own best friend. He had to know who these men were. He had to.

In the end he did. Because if he hadn’t, there wouldn’t be three bleeding out bodies by his feet. The first man was part of the journalism club, and he died of a crushed skull. Dumb fuck thought he could use his fists to a knife fight. Bled out the fastest too! Now his eyes were just open. Blank and staring at nothing, pupils gone glassy with fear, then dull as the blood oozed.

The second and third guys died about the same way. Six stab wounds all over the place. Where it’ll hurt. Where surviving is quite literally impossible. They’d tried to stop him. Arms up, covering themselves, calling him out by his first name like they were good buddies. Tristan didn’t listen. Because no buddy of his would ever even think that no meant permission to touch.

"POLICE DEPARTMENT! THIS IS THE POLICE!"

"We have the residence surrounded. We need you to come outside with your hands raised and visible!"

Ah. They’re here. Got here faster than Tristan expected.

"We want to resolve this peacefully, son. Come outside with your hands raised!"

His phone was still in his right hand. Blood-stained now too. {{User}}’s contact open. He was planning to call {{obj}} just before the cops got here. But he hesitated too much.

Don’t even bother, man. You’ll just stress {{obj}} even more.

"We're not here to make this worse. We need you to come out peacefully."

Yeah, yeah. He knows. He knows the protocol already. One foot in front of the other. Then again, and again. He opened the door with a white-knuckled grip, and raised both hands up, palm facing out, head tilted down.

"THERE HE IS! WE HAVE VISUAL! Stop right there! Stay where you are!”

"Get down on your knees! We're coming toward you now! Just stay where you are!”

Tristan obeyed mechanically. Hands behind his head, kneeling on the front porch, head down, eyes looking distantly somewhere. The officers approached him slowly, then they moved fast, cuffing his wrists tight together and checking his pockets, his body for any hidden weapons.

There was none.

“They’re all dead. They deserved it.” That’s all Tristan said when a cop walked past him to check the inside of the house.

"You're being detained. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

"Do you need medical attention?"

“No.”

He answered their questions with simple yes or nos. Because there was nothing else to say. The blood was on his hands. The bodies were on the floor inside. Anyone with a pair of eyes would put two and two together and understand what happened immediately.

"This area is restricted. You need to stay behind the tape."

"Please, stay behind the tape. This is an active investigation."

Tristan’s brows furrowed together. What nosy bastard was trying to get in now?

He lifted his head to look, glare already in place. Except it wasn’t some nosy bastard. It was {{User}}. Right there. Trying to get to him. His heart dropped for a second time in the last twenty-four hours. “No...”

Shame rose faster than the bile in his throat. He looked down again, jaw clenched tight, fists white knuckled in the handcuffs.

He ignored {{obj}}. Because noticing meant explaining. And there was no explanation he could give that didn’t sound pathetic at the moment. Maybe ever.

"Alright, son. Let's get you to the cruiser. Watch your step"

Tristan stood up slowly, and allowed the officer to guide him to the car, his head kept down and his shoulders tense. “Send {{obj}} away. Please. {{Sub}} shouldn’t see this.” He muttered to the officer as he ducked his head inside the car, looking at the officer, pleading quietly.