Reid fumbles with the clasp of his pistol and only manages to remove the weapon as Kenneth's advancing footsteps come to rest in the doorway beside him.

"Fuck," Kenneth whispers.

They linger on the threshold, staring at the pale woman from afar. It's hard to tell her hair colour; the sickening amount of blood obscures any descriptive features. It doesn't take a mastermind to see that she struggled fiercely.

Kenneth walks inside the bedroom, knife in hand, and checks the closet, under the bed, and, after a final sweeping glance, deems it safe. He comes to stand beside Reid on the threshold of the door and says calmly, "I'm going to look around for a wallet or something. If we can find out her name, maybe it'll explain why we needed to see this shit."

Reid nods, keeping his gaze on the curtains blowing inward.

Kenneth nears. "Reid?"

"Hm?"

"You okay, man?"

Reid looks at Kenneth and laughs easily. "Yeah. It's not something I haven't seen before." It's a bad joke, twisting his stomach into a mess of nerves, but he smiles past the ache.

For a fleeting moment, Kenneth looks truly shocked by Reid's callousness. He clears his throat. "Well, go look around somewhere else. Don't stare at this shit."

"Okay."

It's enough to sate the man's curiosity for now, because Kenneth is gone without another word, caring only for his righteous mission to pick through the poor dead woman's personal belongings.

Reid wonders if Kenneth will use magic to wipe away any traces of his fingerprints, or maybe the human police will never find this woman. Either will work, he supposes.

Kenneth's rummaging echoes in the hallway as Reid quietly moves inside the bedroom. It's an impulse that propels him forward. He pauses a foot away from the side of the mattress.

The woman died on her stomach, and her pale, bloody hand hangs draped over the edge of the mattress. Her throat has been torn apart. Blood has made a trail from her neck, her arm, and down her fingers, silently dripping onto the grey carpeting.

Reid can hear the pistol in his grasp clicking as his fingers shake. He's going to leave, turn away, and free this dead woman from his rude gawking, but he's overtaken by a ringing in his ears.

A rushing ocean so strong it washes away the mundane sounds from the open window, and then an abrupt burning sensation ignites in his gut and tightens his throat. In the back of his mind, a depraved whisper tells him he's hungering for something precious. Something he's never experienced but nonetheless knows intimately. Something he should mourn. Something he needs more than he's needed anything in his entire life.

The sound of his gun clattering to the ground shakes him from his stupor. Reid turns away. The oscillating fan blows cool air over his face. He clutches his middle to halt the vile urges, near to desire but not quite, darker and depraved.

Kenneth's rummaging has become louder, tossing things without care. It's fortunate for Reid, as it means the other man remains oblivious to what just transpired.

Reid inhales and swears he can smell the death that lingers in the air, stale and stagnant. He retrieves his fallen gun, shoves it into the holster at his side, and takes special care not to look at the woman or her blood that continues to steadily drip onto the grey carpet.

Kenneth's rummaging has quieted down, and Reid leaves the room of death gratefully, choosing to detachedly ignore the demanding ache settling in his churning stomach.

There's a bright light. A door across the room is open, revealing ivory tiles and the rumbling hum of a bathroom fan. Someone's standing inside, out of view, their shadow outlined on the carpeted floor.

"Kenneth," Reid whispers, approaching the bathroom.

As Reid peeks his head around the threshold, Kenneth slowly looks towards the doorway. The man's gaze speaks more than a thousand words could ever hope to convey, the dark green of his eyes gleaming with sorrow.

"What is it?" Reid asks, laughing sharply. His heart beats faster than it has during this entire ordeal. Kenneth's not a man who easily shows emotion, but when he does, it's serious.

Kenneth motions to the bathtub. It takes only a turn of Reid's head for his smile to falter. The blue shower curtain has been pulled back to reveal a symbol drawn in blood. It's stained the white porcelain of the bathtub, dripping long streaks of red down the ivory tile.

The amateur blood-drawn lines are disturbingly familiar: a circle with a smaller ring inside and a crimson slash from top to bottom.

It's meaningless. It's everything.

Reid stumbles inside the small room and grabs at the collar of his shirt. He's losing it, and the desperation in his voice shows it as he whispers, "Get us out of here."

"Reid," Kenneth chokes, as if something's stuck in his throat. "It's just a coincidence."

Kenneth knows better than anyone. This isn't a coincidence. He knows this symbol is a catalyst. A secret whispered in the blood of innocents that scratches inside Reid's head until he can't hear anything else. Now, reignited. A nightmare.

Reid closes his eyes. "Please, let's go."

Kenneth's fingers dig into Reid's shoulder. Kenneth's awakening magic is a warmth that spreads over Reid, yanking him through whatever airless space in the universe one goes through when displaced.

Reid usually enjoys being displaced; it's an unrivalled adrenaline rush, but today, it's suffocating. A dreadful reminder of what he's fleeing.

When he opens his eyes, they're home. Welcomed by the familiar ticking of the clocks that hang above the sofa. The smell of the morning's brewed coffee is still heavy in the air. And the familiar stretching quietness of the farmhouse's remoteness.

Reid jerks off his long-sleeve shirt and tosses it onto the floor. His fingers are shaking, making it difficult to undo the buckles of the holster. For some important reason, in a crevice of his cracking psyche, it's essential he rid himself of it.

Kenneth is a heavy presence beside him, and then familiar hands are on Reid, unbuckling the straps in a matter of seconds.

The moment he can, Reid tosses the holster and pistol onto the sofa.

And then he simply stands there, staring at the broken grandfather clock. It won't chime. He's always had a feeling Kenneth broke it on purpose. He listens detachedly to the mingling ticking of the many wall clocks and the summer bugs singing their tunes past the bay window a few feet away.

Reid's been here before, years ago, in a similar bloody scene, one that replays in his head on a nonstop loop during his loneliest and lowest nights.

"Talk to me," Kenneth says sternly. When he's met with silence, his desperation is obvious, and his voice cracks as he whispers, "Reid..."

"I'm fine." Reid's not entirely sure he ever even left that apartment, or maybe he never left his mother's room all those years ago.

Reid's not aware he'd begun walking towards the stairs until Kenneth's hand seizes his arm and tugs him back with a subdued gentleness.

They face each other.

Reid wants to shrink away from the other's gaze, crawl into a hole, and have someone fill it in with dirt. It'd be easier than the way Kenneth's knowing gaze has shattered Reid's carefully crafted façade of indifference.

"I'm tired...I'm just tired." A soft bed. Sleeping for a few days. It's a sound plan. Reid has to hide. He doesn't feel steady; he's physically and mentally teetering on the edge of something that scares him.

Kenneth studies him, not letting him go. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Not fine, fine." Reid fakes a smile. He clears his throat. "You left your car."

Kenneth lets go of Reid's arm to better glance at one of the numerous ticking clocks. "I'll have to go back for it. Shit. I probably won't make it back for at least an hour."

Reid takes the momentary distraction as his opportunity to move away, putting space between him and Kenneth's piercing gaze.

"It's okay, go." He sinks himself into a brown armchair and tips his head back so they don't meet eyes, blinking up at the white ceiling. He sways a hand in the air lazily. "Leave me behind to wallow."

"Don't go wallowing too much," Kenneth says with a sudden burst of anger.

It's a double-edged comment that has Reid gripping the armrests of the chair and lowering his head to glare at Kenneth, who snatches the holster and pistol from the couch.

Reid grits, "Scared I'll shoot myself?"

"Listen —"

Reid laughs sharply, and the sound lights the green of Kenneth's eyes with rage. The man's magic is reacting to whatever stress he's keeping tightly bottled.

Kenneth closes the space between them with heavy stomps, towering and intimidating. "Something funny? Care to share, twerp?"

Reid looks up at him and laughs harder.

Kenneth's thin patience snaps, "Shut up a damn minute. Will you listen to what I have to say for once? I'll leave! Sometimes, with the way you act, it's what you deserve." He shakes his head. "I don't know why I put up with this shit."

Reid laughs harder, clutching his stomach. It's what he deserves. It's true; he deserves nothing less. Kenneth should leave and never speak to him again. Isn't that what you do when something weighs you down? Or you'll risk being dragged into oblivion with them?

Kenneth groans. "Shit, I'm sorry. I lost my temper — stop, stop, I'm sorry."

Reid can't, and he laughs and laughs, his voice growing hoarse. He laughs even when tears start streaming down his cheeks, and then he's crying, falling over a cliff that he's been dangling from for so long.

He covers his face with his arms, muffling his sobbing, not out of a bid to protect his pride; the lights are suddenly too bright, throbbing his head.

It feels like an eternity, and then Kenneth's strong arms are around him, the familiar touch tugging him away from the darkness he's drowning in. Reid's dragged against a firm body. He mashes his face into a broad shoulder and copies Kenneth's inhales to steady his ragged breathing.

Reid rarely cries, but it's apparently impossible to control once it's begun. Cathartic.

Kenneth draws away from the embrace enough to look into Reid's teary eyes, and his own gaze is watery. "She's gone. Reid, today doesn't mean anything. She's gone. I'm sorry."

Reid knows his mother is gone. He shed his tears and mourned in his destructive way a year ago. The symbol has him shaken, yes, but it's not what's weighing on his chest until he can't breathe. Reid covers his face. "It's not — I felt..."

Kenneth places his hands on the arm of the chair. He can't seem to handle the stretching silence and asks sternly, "What? What did you feel?"

"All that blood..." Reid clutches at the wispy strands of hair that touch his forehead. He uses the pain aching his scalp to numb him as he says, so faintly that he's surprised Kenneth hears, "I-I lost myself. I wanted..."

"Fuck." Kenneth pushes away from the chair, cursing and leaving Reid feeling cold and alone.

Reid rubs at his eyes; the catharsis of crying has morphed into a feeling of numbness. He quietly stares as Kenneth paces the living room.

Kenneth rubs at his frowning mouth and says, "It doesn't mean anything." He stops his pacing and repeats louder, "It means nothing."

Reid laughs bitterly. "We both know what it means."

Kenneth's at his side in a trice, crouching beside the chair. His green eyes are intense. "Who cares? You'll still be you. My brother. We always knew this could happen." He grasps Reid's hand, squeezing his fingers. "And I won't leave you. I didn't mean what I said. I'd never leave you."

Reid smiles genuinely, and Kenneth's calloused fingers tighten their grip on his hand, verging on painful. The touch is grounding and reassuring, and for a minute, Reid can almost believe it's true. Nothing will change, and Kenneth won't turn away from him. But how could he not? Reid will be worse than the monsters that Kenneth dedicates his life to abolishing.

"Brother?" Reid places a hand on his heart and pouts. "I always thought we were soulmates. I'm going to have to reevaluate our relationship."

"God, shut up."

Reid smiles. He wipes at his damp cheeks.

"I'm trying to be nice. So, just...shut up." Kenneth rises, re-grabbing the holster and pistol from where he dropped them on the ground in his haste. "I want to stay, but I can't leave my car. Someone might find the body, and I don't want to have anything linking me to the area." His expression turns serious. "Unless you need me to stay. Then, fuck it, it's just a stupid car."

"Go get your car," Reid says, laughing fondly. He rises from the armchair and flops onto the sofa.

Green eyes scrutinise him as he slides his hand between the cushions and grabs the remote control for the television. Kenneth isn't moving; he's just staring intensely while blocking the television.

Reid sighs. "Yes, Kenneth?"

"You'll be fine here?"

"Yes, Dad. I'll survive on the pantry's crumbs, and if I get tired, I'll make a nest in the corner with sofa cushions. I'm quite self-sufficient when you're gone."

Reid lifts the controller above his head, angled around Kenneth's form, and he mashes the power button. He can't see the screen but can hear the television turn on, the sound of voices filling the quiet of the house.

When Kenneth continues to stare in concern, Reid groans loudly. "Leave me to my shows. It's my only vice. Don't take it from me!"

"Be here when I get back," Kenneth says, with a voice that leaves no room for argument. His eyes brighten to a vibrant green. The smell of magic is in the air —sulfuric.

Reid waves goodbye with a smile, and then Kenneth's gone.

The television screen is bright. It's a dramatic courtroom scene: someone's crying, someone's yelling, and someone's unconscious. It's horrendous.

Reid sets the remote control on the sofa cushion beside him. He lets the court drama play on the television without paying any attention.

Outside, through the crack left in the velvet curtains, the afternoon sun has taken on an orange hue; night is coming.

Reid shifts, trying to abate a need to move that's delved into his traitorous body. His fingers tap an uneven beat against the arm of the sofa, and when that doesn't work, he fiddles with the rings on his fingers.

It's not enough to calm the deep-set feeling pushing him to stand and grab his fallen shirt.

On his way out of the farmhouse, he hesitates, his rationality telling him he's being foolish. And then he's gone, the need to flee stronger than sanity.

He grabs his car keys from the curved hook beside the front door.

Kenneth knew he wouldn't be here when he got back. Reid nurses that comforting lie as he lays yet another brick for the foundation of failure he's so keen on building.