[It's been a lovely few weeks, really. Playing at old times and learning to fish junk out of the river has been both educational and relaxing. Even as far gone from who he was as Diarmuid is now, it's been oddly easy to slip into this routine, and he hasn't had to put as much effort into pretending to be normal as he thought he might.

There are even some moments where he forgets it's all a lie.

Of course, he remembers soon enough every time. He can't really forget the time passed, the blood in his mind, or the reason he's here. For every moment he laughs naturally, there are a hundred more where he feels the seething, churning anger of abandonment and the thrill of what's to come.

And now he's gathered all the information he needs, and alerted the proper authorities. They'll be here soon, but for now he's sitting and watching Cu sleep, seeing the rise and fall of his chest and picturing it quickened with the labored breathing of someone with a hand in their guts. He turns a thin, long knife in his hands, mapping out Cu's form under his blanket and contemplating where to stab him first.

His no-longer-friend will be awakened by the weight of Diarmuid crawling into his bed, leaning over him before shoving his blade into his side.]