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There had been a house. Two cars. It's near enough to cause potential problems later on. Near enough that its inhabitants might’ve witnessed them already.
Junas weighs his options, standing in the front hall, one of his nails dragging back and forth across the fabric inside his pocket. He'd noticed it on his way back and the memory of its location is still relatively clear. It's dark out, now, but it won’t take him long, and it won’t interfere with his main objective. He thinks he will slaughter them, after all.
“Heading out?”
Junas turns his gaze from the front door; he presses back against the wall a little more, fingers tightening inside his pockets a little more. It’s Miroku.
There’s an unfamiliarity in Miroku’s hands lately. Junas notices it because of how taut Miroku’s smile becomes and how he lingers, gestures still fluid but becoming more and more like drawing a sword—as if he’s waiting for a sign of insubordination that will never show. Miroku has always looked upon everyone from up above, a king, but he comes to Junas with a firmness in his stride, his palm pressing into the corner of the wall at the same time his feet slow, like he needs to fence Junas in as he would a human.
Miroku has always been more than a king, but Junas has never been the insect he wanted to pry the legs from.
“You want another hideout,” Junas states, as an explanation. Not as a question or to be combative.
“It would be nice,” Miroku agrees. The way he stands as a barrier between Junas and the route back inside is disquieting. His outline glows in the backlight, warm but imposing. Then, casually, he returns to form, arms folding across his front, no longer posturing like Junas doesn’t know better. He returns to familiarity, if only slightly.
The military’s presence is a bigger thorn in Miroku’s side, but they aren’t as simple to eliminate. They multiply like ants and Junas doesn’t know how many camps they have around the area. It's nothing he can’t handle, obviously, but attacking one yields a high chance of another taking notice and the last thing Miroku needs is another manhunt, another setback in his plans. His main objective is finding an additional hideout, and Junas should not jeopardize the one they’re using now.
"Don't forget,” Miroku says, eyes bright like the very first time they’d met face-to-face, “we’ve a big day tomorrow. I need you back here.”
His head tilts and he looks cheerful, not in the false way like Grana but in the radiant way that makes Junas’ skin crawl. This isn’t a warning; it’s incentive.
“I understand,” Junas replies.
So he’ll slaughter the military as well. Whichever camps are closest. And if reinforcements appear, he can easily distract them, lead them in the opposite direction. Then he’ll kill them, too. It'll be easy.
That thought makes him hesitate, only for a moment.
One of Miroku’s hands shifts downwards to follow the curve of his elbow, and the sound of skin sliding across skin pulls Junas back into focus. Miroku is still watching him as if there’s a concealed threat somewhere within Junas’ body—as if he’s scrutinizing where to plunge his hand to rip it out—and the bend of his smile runs something frigid along Junas' gut. It isn't like Junas is doubting himself, because he knows he’s far superior to anyone who crosses his path. Miroku knows it, too.
Kill. Outrun. Return to Miroku.
“Are you still thinking about that day?” Miroku asks.
Junas ignites, the glint of sunglasses fresh in his mind. His fingers clench and unfurl, hands tearing from his pockets, feet pulling him from the wall with heated steps. Echoes in the forest, of branches snapping, fill his ears like a crashing impact, a white suit, shoes on water. There’s a bitter taste on his tongue, copper, hatred scalding hot at his nape. A sharp throbbing erupts across his ribs, red blotting the edges of his vision like bloodstains, like burnt flesh, like a wine-red dress shirt and a cocky putrid grin.
“When I see him again,” he forces out in a breathless snarl, "I'll carve out his heart.”
He feels the touch to his neck before he hears the low notes of Miroku’s laughter. He feels it along his throat like a caress and he halts immediately. His skin is boiling but Miroku’s is cold like metal. The pad of Miroku’s thumb draws an arc following his jawline before dipping beneath to skim over an abrasion from where a bullet had grazed on a fluke—with pinpoint precision, pointedly. The only red he sees is of Miroku’s hair.
“You will,” Miroku says.
Junas is reminded of when Miroku had asked for one of his knives before setting out on one of his whims. The sight of Miroku’s fingers wrapping around the handle had been strange, because Miroku gives off the image of someone above dirtying his own hands on those beneath him. The sight of it had made Junas uneasy, but he questions now if that had truly been the case. For some reason, he’s reminded of Miroku’s teeth.
He’ll slaughter the family. Slaughter the soldiers. Find another hideout. Then he’ll return. It'll be easy.
When Miroku draws back, it’s with a satisfaction that Junas feels at the crest of his hip. His hands are cold, biting, but Junas sees, for a fleeting glimpse, the smear of a blood blister beneath the nail of Miroku’s ring finger.
And he exhales.