:black_nib: . 𝙱𝙸𝙻𝙻𝚈 𝚁𝚄𝚂𝚂𝙾 || 𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚃 .「⋆」

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

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ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ:

∙ :arrow_right: 2,500

sᴛʏʟᴇ:

∙ :arrow_right: third person, past tense – literate

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ:

∙ :arrow_right: angst

ғᴏᴄᴜs:

∙ :arrow_right: billy russo

ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs:

∙ :arrow_right: including but not limited to,

             – violence, blood / light gore

             – swearing / profanity

              – death (duh)

             – grief, light angst

              – light anxiety

ᴘʟᴀʏʟɪsᴛ:

           ∙ :arrow_right: enemy (with JID)

                           - imagine dragons, jid.

           ∙ :arrow_right: the world we knew (over and over)  

                           - frank sinatra

            ∙ :arrow_right: bitter sweet symphony

                          - the verve

￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣

⌖

￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴

𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗱.

A walking corpse.

Dead man walking.

Pale skin contrasting against dark features. Eyes sunken against the skull. Bones aching with every movement.

Skin stretched, scarred, and bloodied.

Veins fighting to pump that blood through the thin, wiry body. Heart beating against the ribs — 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱, 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱, 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱.

Hands broken from dealing damage; re-healed, re-broken. 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 and 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 and 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 again.

Ex-Marine.

The founder and owner of Anvil.

New York City's one and only pretty boy.

Correction - 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘳 pretty boy.

His outside finally matched his inside — ugly, spiteful, angry, and jagged.

It had been almost a year since the… 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵. Frank Castle, his brother for life, grating his face against the broken glass of the carousel. Shredding and carving new scars like a fucked up map. The only direction they were pointing to? Death.

After the carousel, everything was split into pieces. Things didn't add up; didn't make sense; correlate, nothing. When he woke up in that hospital bed everything was fuzzy. He couldn't piece together any part of the jigsaw puzzle. And he couldn't even begin to comprehend why his ‘brother’ wanted him dead. Why would Frank Castle ever be on the hunt for him? 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺. They were blood; bonded.

No part of him, however, recalled letting Frank's Wife, Daughter, and Son fall victim to the other end of a gun. To the other end of a corrupt militia. He wasn't the person who pulled the trigger. But, he didn't stop it from happening. And that was just as bad, right? Didn't matter. He didn't .

And later— when he was bloodied, bruised, sprawled on the floor and gasping for air? He didn't . When he called Curtis, begging for the man to show up and be with him as he finally died; 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦?

It was Frank Castle who walked through the door. Those heavy, black boots pounding against the polished wood as he made his way over. The laugh that had escaped Bill's throat was raw and brutal, met with gasps for air.

It was all a haze.

There were things he could . As much as he tried to forget.

He could telling Frank that he didn't look so good, coughed up some blood in-between. He could the way his hand was 𝗰𝗼𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 in hot crimson as it pressed against his wound painfully. He could the way that the room smelled like wet pennies— 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘤. Strong enough to make someone gag. The way… the way that Frank raised the gun at him mid-sentence. As he was saying how grateful he was for Frank to be there… apologizing even though he couldn't before. The way that Frank emptied the clip into his abdomen. The way the bullets 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘥 and 𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 through his tender flesh— shattering a rib— causing his body to heave back against the white walls.

Billy Russo didn't a lot. But Frank killing him? He wouldn't be able to forget that. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳.

His body laid there for hours in that building. His blood spilled through his hands and shirt and pooled onto the floor. There was his body, 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘭𝘢𝘬𝘦.

He didn't have anyone. He was born alone; due to his drug-addict mother dropping him off at the fire station. His father was never in the picture. The group home abused him. His fellow Marines despised him. His best friend killed him. He would be destined to die alone.

The body does funny things when it's dying.

The person grows tired— weary, fatigued. It gets hard to breathe. The skin cools and becomes pale due to the lack of blood flow. Breathing sounds like a painful rattle. The brain replays seven minutes of what's supposed to be the best memories after death. And hearing is the last sense left.

And as Billy Russo's cold, broken, motionless body laid there — 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘬.

Memories of them flashed through his fading brain. Running through the gauntlet at night in the downpour; covered in mud and sweat. Punches to their bodies from higher ranked Marines as a congratulations for making it through boot camp. Covering each other's sixes as they tore through enemies like a hot knife to butter. Laying next to each other on those uncomfortable cots. Eyes closed as Frankie plucked the strings of the shitty guitar. Working as a team through wind, storms, and snow. The way Frank talked about wanting to go home to his wife and kids so badly… and the way that Russo's heart broke every time because 𝗙𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗸 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦. It wasn't a mutual feeling. He knew that.

He ed that feeling.

He ed running to a home that ran from him.

Home was where the heart was, right?

His heart wasn't beating.

Or if it was, it was too faint to feel.

His black eyes stared up wearily at the old ceiling— unblinking. Everything was fuzzy. Nothing had definition. His fingers twitched slowly. His chest caved in. Fragments of rib bone stabbing against other organs in an uncomfortable manner.

When Billy was little, all he ever wanted was to be loved. Honestly, he had no shot from the beginning.

He closed his eyes.

He could hear Frank's guitar now; strings being 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 and 𝘱𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 apart, vibrating against the wood body— some little tune that the raven had picked up. It always made him feel at ease. Now, it made him uneasy. Violent. Nauseous. 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘤. He wanted to tear all of his skin off and become reborn. If he could forget, then he'd choose to forget everything.

Why wasn't he dead?

𝘏𝘰𝘸 wasn't he dead?

It didn't make any fucking sense.

His fingers twitched again– hand slowly curled into a fist. He squeezed it shut until his fingernails dug into his palm. He forced himself to sit up, measured. The room was spinning.

How was he moving?

The sound of the guitar grew 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘳 as he dragged his bloodied body up to his feet. Russo stumbled, boots squelching in blood, before he almost backed up against the wall. He couldn't hear anything but the guitar. Strings plucked his tendons and nerves. His feet moved on their own. Where was he going?

His stumble turned into a shuffle. Shuffle to limp. Guitar started to pick up— heavy strums, loud and roaring. 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘧𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨. The limp turned into a fast walk as he made his way out of the building. He couldn't hear his feet hit the pavement. He spun around the corner before picking up his pace; now 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. His legs moved faster than he thought they could— and his long legs carried him down the street. No thoughts. Pure instinct. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨?

Buildings, cars; scenery all 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗱 past him as he made one last turn. His body came to an abrupt halt as he panted with an open mouth— eyes frantically searching his surroundings.

A cemetery.

𝗔 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘆.

He walked a little slower to catch his breath- winded and in pain. The guitar was 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 against his ears; angry and raging as if it were the sea and he was a ship on the ocean. Rising and crashing. Barricaded and trapped in it. Fucking drowning. He was panting ‐ hand absent-mindedly 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 at his chest. Russo's brows furrowed as he moved… navigating through withered head stones, flowers, and monuments. His feet stumbled along, and his legs now felt numb. Everything was starting to feel numb.

The adrenaline was wearing off.

And the panic was setting in.

Billy collapsed to the ground. His hands reached out to catch himself before his body knew it was happening. All his limbs felt heavy. His body ungracefully hit the grass, and bloody fingers grasped at a headstone for purchase. With a pained grunt, he pushed himself back to sit on his knees. His hands pressed against his ears as he screamed. The guitar 𝘴𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘥 his eardrums — crescendo. Crashing. Screaming. Louder.

Louder.

LOUDER.

𝗟𝗢𝗨𝗗𝗘𝗥.

And then… 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. Almost as if the ocean swallowed him whole.

Russo looked up at the gravestone that he held onto. His eyes took their time to focus. He blinked away the blur— ignored the way the darkness crept at the corners.

The gravestone read ,

‘𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘢 𝘌𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘩 𝘊𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦 – 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.’

“Fuck— 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬-”, he muttered, pushing himself away forcefully to land on his ass. Two more gravestones on each side of Maria's caught his eye next. The kids. 𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘑𝘳. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘓𝘪𝘴𝘢. His stomach lurched, and he keeled over, throwing up blood in the grass. He laid his head down against a different patch and squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn't happening to him. It wasn't. He held his breath. His ears reveled in the stark silence.

The ocean stilled. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗼𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗱 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.

His attention was grasped as black boots crunched in the gravel a few feet ahead of him. Bill's head shot up painfully, and his gaze locked on none other than a solemn 𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘊𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦 with bouquets of flowers in his hands.

𝗔 𝘄𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗰𝗿𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻...

𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝘄𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗱 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗼𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗲.

He sat up, slowly sprawling backwards. “S–shit- Frank-”, he started as the grown man made his way closer. “Frankie, I'm– fuck. M'𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺—”, his voice caught in his throat. His face was wet. Why was it wet?

Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks; scars, stinging as the salt got into his wounds. “Frankie–”, he muttered one last time. Frank walked up to him. Bill braced for impact. For anger. For more pain.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮… not stopping until he could kneel in front of Maria's grave, and press his forehead against the cool stone.

Russo panted pathetically, face scrunched up in confusion. He turned around in the grass– hands reaching out to grasp at Frank's jacket. “T'fuck—”, he whispered as his hands fazed through. As if the man was made of air. “Frank? 𝘊𝘢𝘯–”, he swallowed, hands going to reach for the man once more. “Can you h—”

“𝘏𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶”, a polite voice caught him off guard. He turned towards the sound rapidly– eyes trying to find the source. His body felt tired. His energy was draining. “He can't hear you, Bill”, the voice repeated, “–he can't feel you, either.” Looking up, black eyes clashed with a honey brown. “M… Maria?”, he whispered, swallowing again, shaking his head. “How are you— what- t'fucks happenin’-”, he mumbled.

Maria stood a few feet from the gravestones, smiling so bright that heat could be 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵. She just rolled her eyes in a playful manner, hands reaching out to motion Bill over towards her. “He can't see me, either, Bill. Why do you think that is, 𝘩𝘮?”, she hummed out as the man made his way over. And all he could do was stare at her; 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘺. His bottom lip 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗲𝗱 as fresh, heavy tears made their way down his cheeks. Mixed with the blood. Dripped off his chin. Maria didn't look any different than the last time he saw her. She was ethereal; glowing, 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭.

Gentle hands cupped his cheeks, and she wiped his tears away with her thumbs. “𝘖𝘩 𝘉𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘺…”, she murmured, “-the world hasn't been kind to you, 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵?”, and it hurt, because it was 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦. He let out a broken sob and stepped in closer, shaking hands greedily pulling her into a hug. “Maria— m'sorry- m'𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨- I–”, and he got cut off by her shushing him, patting his back, making him sit with her in the grass. “None of that, okay? None of it. I had my time to be angry… and I 𝘸𝘢𝘴, angry, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸?”, she spoke softly. “What happened… I can't say it was your fault, but you weren't exactly innocent. All in all, it didn't happen because of you. Their target audience was him”, she nodded her head in Frank's direction.

They both sat there in the grass; knees scrunched up, looking at Frank. Tears still fell from his eyes as he watched the man rub his hand over Maria's engraved name. Bill could hear her sigh contently next to him. Frank placed the flowers down in front of the stone along with some praised mutters, shaking his head. Bill could see his eyes– glossy, misted. He sniffled loud and ugly, not turning his attention away from the raven as he spoke.

“Stupid question then. 𝘈𝘮 𝘐 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥?”, he whispered, knowing the answer, but needing to hear it anyway.

“Yeah, Bill. You're dead. Your body is wherever you died. Your spirit is here”, she hummed, eyes also watching her husband.

Frank frowned as he talked to the gravestones, making sure to take turns as he spoke to his wife and kids—𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩. He stood up slowly and wiped his face, shaking his head. The sunlight caught his eyes; the way it glimpsed through the trees and pierced the ground. He stared. Stared right 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 Bill and Maria. Not as if he could see them, anyway. He inhaled nice and slow. He held it. Taking a moment before he exhaled.

“𝗙𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗲…”, he whispered, shoulders dropping down. Maria just nodded in agreement before getting back up onto her feet. She extended her hand down to Bill as an offer and pulled him up to stand with her. He clambered up, rocking back and forth, wincing at how lightheaded he was. “Now 𝘶𝘩- 𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁?”, he wiped tears away, watching as Frank sighed and slowly made his way out of the cemetery. 𝘐𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

Russo took a step forward, but a hand wrapped around his. Maria shook her head ‘no’ with a small smile on her face. “He's going to be 𝗼𝗸𝗮𝘆, alright? 𝘞𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.”

“...𝗪𝗲?”, he tilted his head, voice getting caught in his throat as two figures made their way through the trees. “𝘔𝘰𝘮! Come on!”, a boy's voice yelled– footsteps louder the closer they came. “𝘜𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘦 𝘉𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘺?”, a girl's voice projected, excitement laced in the undertone. “Huh? 𝘜𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘦 𝘉𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘺!”, Frank Jr. yelled, as he and Lisa ran over. They both hugged him, wrapping their arms around his body. His body, that wasn't bloody anymore; wasn't tired anymore, felt perfectly fine, and looked normal. Better than normal.

Maria 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦𝘥 his hand ively. Billy looked up at her with a broken expression. He was exasperated. The kids didn't know, then. They never knew. She smiled at him, understanding, pointing her head in the direction the kids came from. “𝘕𝘰𝘸…”, she whispered, her smile reaching from ear to ear…

“𝗡𝗼𝘄, 𝘄𝗲 𝗴𝗼 𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗲.”

￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣

⌖

￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣

ᴇɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛᴇs:

∙ :arrow_right: frank has to go back to the cemetery and make arrangements to buy a new plot. a grave for billy, right next to the rest of his family.

∙ :arrow_right: I haven't written anything in a while so I truly hope this turned out okay.

∙ :arrow_right: And I hope you enjoyed reading it.

∙ :arrow_right: Thank YOU for taking your time to read it. It means alot to me!

￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣

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                                  thank you again !!!

                                   ￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣

                                                          𝘣𝘺𝘦 <3

                                                             — 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺.