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The house was suffocating. For Heartbroken, the silence wasn't peaceful.
He sat gloomily on the edge of his bed, staring at nothing. The memories were haunting—Builderman’s guiding, fatherly presence, Dusekkar’s unique speech, and then Brighteyes’ laughter. The thought of not just his late wife–but everyone–felt like a jagged piece of glass twisting in his chest. He didn't just miss them, but he blamed himself. He had convinced himself that his only purpose was to watch everything he loved wither and die. He had convinced himself that the reason for their demise was his own negligence and ignorance. That if he tried, he could've saved them.
Wanting a quick way to forget the memories, to forget everything, he reached for his trusty blade resting on the bed beside him.
He had carved marks into his skin before, each and every individual one carefully planned and precisely drawn out. He pressed the steel deep into his forearm, tracing those old wounds that hadn't quite healed yet or well and watching the blood bloom in dark streaks. The pain was a distraction, but it wasn't good enough. He needed the noise in his head to stop. He needed the guilt to cease. He needed to see them all again, to apologize.
A genius idea came to Heartbroken's head. A quick, easy, and almost painless escape. Moving almost mechanically, he pushed his old work chair to the center of his bedroom, stepped on it, and secured a rope to the ceiling beam. He didn't leave a note and moved in silence. He felt that was the best way to go out, as he wanted silence in his head.
With a last breath, he kicked the chair.
He felt his body try to gasp for air, flailing weakly, but his mind had already been made up and was just waiting for the inevitable end. The last thing he left the world before he left the world was a soft smile, nothing like his usually cocky grins. After that, the world snapped, blurred, and faded into nothingness, the silence Heartbroken desired.
–
Hacklord pulled into the driveway hours later, the headlights of his car illuminating the night. He was in a surprisingly good mood, his normal mood boosted by the mere thought of his lover. In the passenger seat sat a large, greasy bucket of Heartbroken’s favorite fried chicken. Hacklord loved seeing him happy, and got it, knowing how much his partner loved it.
"Hey, Heartbroken! I'm home!" Hacklord called out as he stepped inside before kicking his shoes off.
He was expecting a response back, but no–silence greeted him.
Hacklord frowned. He pulled out his phone and dialed Heartbroken’s number. It rang and rang, the sound just echoing through the empty hallway. He tried again. Still nothing.
Anxiety overtook Hacklord. Heartbroken was a person of habit and was always home by this time. Hacklord glanced out the window, seeing that Heartbroken’s car was still parked in the driveway.
"Probably just fell asleep," Hacklord murmured reassuringly to himself, remembering just how much his partner loved to sleep.
He walked up the stairs and toward the bedroom, the bucket of chicken now feeling heavy and absurd in his hand. More absurd than the literal coffin resting on his back.
He knocked softly on the door. "Heartbroken? Are you in there?"
Still nothing.
Hacklord pushed the door open slowly. The room was dim, lit by the moonlight filtering in through the curtains. At first, his eyes darted to the bed where he didn't see him. Then, his eyes traveled upward, eyes locking onto the literal last thing he wanted to see.
The bucket of fried chicken slipped from Hacklord's fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
Heartbroken was there, suspended from the ceiling. His body was lifeless, swaying slightly in a way it shouldn't have been. His face was pale, eyes closed, mouth somehow still curved in a slight smile, an indicator that the struggles he was facing were long gone. Below him, the floor was stained with dark brown drops of dried blood, hinting to the self harm Heartbroken inflicted to himself right before the rope took him.
Hacklord froze. The world seemed to freeze alongside him. He had traveled the multiverse, killed countless versions of this man, but this was different. He had taken his own life. Not just that, but he was immensely important to Hacklord.
The alive one stepped forward, his breath coming in shallow, rigid gasps. He reached out, his hand trembling as he touched Heartbroken’s cold, limp hand.
"You idiot," Hacklord whispered, his voice cracking unexpectedly. "You absolute idiot. Why didn't you tell me?"
He didn't scream. He didn't collapse. Instead, a cold, searing rage began to build in his chest. It wasn't directed towards Heartbroken, but at the universe that had stripped him of his sanity until he felt that death was the only escape.
Hacklord looked at the lifeless body. Not just looked, but stared at it, examining it as if it would come back to life. Even though it didn't, he couldn't stop himself from thinking that death didn't change the beauty of the man he loved so deeply.
Hacklord gently untied the body, taking it down from its hanging position and carefully laid it on the bed, as if any even slightly harsh movement would damage it. He took both of Heartbroken's cold hands in his own, as if the warmth of his own hands could suddenly make the deceased one spring back to life again. For a few minutes, Hacklord didn't move. Just held the other's hands and stared down at him, eyes scanning the body as if there could have movement. Only there was none.
Pressing a chaste kiss to both Heartbroken's forehead and lips, which were now cold and abnormally dry, Hacklord prepared to leave. He didn't know where he was going, but for the first time ever since he met the light of his world, Heartbroken, he felt completely and helplessly alone.