Written for the prompt: Angsty confrontation which leads to their emotional breakdown. Confrontation's initiated by Knave 'cause he heard and felt EVERYTHING while in his statue-state...

It feels like dying, which is rather bloody backwards as he's meant to be coming back to life. But his head is aching, his entire body feeling hot and shaky and weak as the stone chips away; Will wants nothing more than to collapse to the grass and breathe.

But he can't, not for long. He stumbles to his feet, hand clutching at his chest as he coughs awkwardly, trips his way into a shaky sort of jog, because he can't miss her, can't let her go, not this time, not so easily –

"Anastasia," he gasps when he rounds the corner, clutching to the shrubbery for balance, and she whirls around in surprise. She hadn't made it far, but it would only take a moment for her to disappear into the maze and he'd never find her. He doesn't know the palace as she does.

"Will," she breathes, eyes wide and voice too quiet, too soft. It's only for a moment until her chin tilts up, lips curving into a stiff little smile. "How unexpected."

"I don't know how bloody unexpected it can be, when you just freed me," he snarls, and is treated to another moment when her mask falls, when Ana blinks back at him in shock and - he'd call that fear but he doesn't want to believe she can fear anything anymore.

"Yes, well," she shrugs. "I have more use of you this way."

"Do you?" Will challenges, straightening as his breath finally begins to come easier. There's still an awful choking in his throat, but that's all Anastasia. "You were going to have me executed."

Her lips press together, and when she next speaks her voice has the same tight, barely-controlled edge to it as it had when she'd visited him in his cell (she used to scowl, to shout when she was angry). "You were quite insistent on it, darling."

He could say he didn't think she'd actually do it – but the truth is that he hadn't been sure. He'd hoped, despite himself he'd hoped; but he hadn't known, and hadn't expected Alice's rescue, either.

Instead, Will says, "I heard everything, when I was a statue."

It gives him a dark sort of pleasure to watch the way her mouth opens in surprise, a silent little oh.

"Didn't feel much," he admits nonchalantly, stepping closer, slowly closing the distance between them, "but I supposed that's to be expected, as I was stoned at the time. But I heard everything, saw –" a final step brings him right up to her, mere inches between them, and he tries to stand tall, to act like his head isn't still aching something fierce, "–everything."

She tilts her head up to meet his eyes. "Did you now."

And it's bloody awful, because that's Ana, his Ana, always stubborn, ready for any challenge, staring at him like a dare, so close he can almost feel her chest against his as she takes a breath, can recall exactly how her lips fit against his own.

"You apologized," Will says, wrenching his gaze up to hers angrily. "You apologized and you were going to let me go."

Something flashes in her eyes then, something like regret (no, that's his foolish hopes talking, pity, it's pity), and she leans just that little bit closer, lips pursed in a mocking pout. "I did tell you that I was trying to make it up to you, Will."

Her breath brushes across his lips as she speaks, and suddenly he's furious because he's sure she knows what she's doing. She's too close, the little feathers on her ridiculous jacket trembling in the wind, and she wants to screw with him, wants to burn him, again, endlessly, she knows bloody well that he can't escape her and she's taunting him with it, with everything he'll never have again.

Will's hands snap up, clamping onto her waist. He doesn't pause, yanking her forward even as he leans down, and their lips collide so hard he almost cuts his lip, but he doesn't care. Her mouth is soft, and he bites it open, hands gripping her waist tight enough to bruise, pulling her closer until her can feel the heat of her body even through that bloody dress, her every curve familiar against him. And he closes his eyes and kisses her harder, so hard it hurts, kisses her until she gasps a little and suddenly her arms are around him, her mouth opening under his, fighting back just as fiercely, her mouth tasting as sweet as he remembers, wet and warm and when he lets go of her hips she doesn't pull away, he can feel her nails digging into his back under his jacket, and he slides his own hand up her back until it's at her neck, shoving the bloody feathers out of the way to curve around the back of her head, he sucks on her tongue, she's there in his arms, whimpering against him, trying to keep up with him as he kisses her so violently, he wants to devour her, destroy her, hurt her like she hurt him and never let her go –

They break apart to breathe, but only for a moment, and then he's kissing her cheek, her jaw, licking and sucking and biting, his fingers curving into her tight bun (she used to always wear her hair down, he hates this, all of this) and his other hand still round her waist, pressing her so close he can feel every inch of her trembling against him, she wants him, she wants this.

"Will," she moans as he presses a kiss right to the hollow of her throat, her head tipping back and he can't breathe, he remembers her, remembers when she was everything, he's never once touched her this roughly before, she was always too precious, queen of his heart –

He wrenches away, takes two large steps back, where he stands cold and panting, blood thrumming, head pounding, aroused and aching, and still angrier than he's ever been, boiling over.

Anastasia's lips are red and puffy, hickeys already blooming across her pale skin. Her stiff dress is crumpled, the left shoulderpad crushed down, the fabric at her hips wrinkled where he'd gripped tight to it. Her cheeks are flushed, her chest heaving, but he doesn't feel satisfied at all because her crown is still perfectly balanced, her hair held tight up off her neck.

She swallows and he's burning.

"Why?" He hears himself asking, voice raw and plainly desperate. He opens his mouth to say more, but chokes on the words.

Anastasia's eyes are bright, and her smile trembles, but she draws herself up and smooths her dress. Her voice wobbles when she says, "I wanted more, Will."

He laughs, loud enough to drown out every whisper inside his head that it's as he always feared, he wasn't enough, of course he wasn't enough for her. "And are you happy with what you got? Ruling over a kingdom of bloody idiots, working with a monster, destroying Alice's happiness, alone in your castle, does that make you happy, Ana?"

(Her name is the worst curse he's ever uttered.)

"I –" She hesitates, and she's still breathing heavily, looking far too small in those rich red clothes, he wants to rip them off her, to tell her to stop playing pretend. "These are necessary steps, Will–"

"Necessary for what?" he shouts, but she just shakes her head.

"Will." Her voice is soft, so soft, he can barely hear it. She lifts her hand and reaches out, and oh, her fingers are trembling. "Please."

He wants nothing more than to take her hand and kiss it, to pull her into his arms and just hold her, to press his lips against hers so gently his touch wouldn't disturb a butterfly. He's never hated anyone this much.

"You're never gonna change, are you?" he realizes, and takes a step back. "You can't ever come back – you don't even want to."

Her smile drops then, slowly, as slow as her hand falling back to her side. She blinks and her mask is gone, all he can see is Ana, his Ana, with tears slipping down her cheeks as she watches him back up further, she's lonely and scared –

"Will."

– and he loves it. He can see the affect he's having on her, the pain he's causing, and even though it's nothing close to what she did to him… still, he relishes it. He feels sick and dark and angry, wants to hurt her even more.

"I don't love you anymore," he says, and turns his back on her completely, walking away towards the entrance to the maze. "Your majesty."

It's the truth – and he can hear from her slight gasp behind him that she knows it. He doesn't love her, can't love her, can't love anyone without his heart, he's got a hole in his chest where it ought to be.

But for all that's true, Will still feels like he's burning, like he can't breathe, like he's made of stone all over again for every step he takes that she doesn't call after him. The silence is a handful of glass in his throat, shredding him with every breath he takes and he can't swallow, his head is throbbing and he can't think, his heart – it aches.

"Don't have one," he mumbles, reminding himself, and keeps walking. He has to go help Alice, he doesn't have time to hurt like this, to want so badly to turn around (if she spoke at all, even just a whisper, if she said his name one more time he'd be back in her arms instantly, kissing her softer than air, begging her to give this up).

It should be impossible to feel at all, without a heart. Somehow, this is the best he can manage when he's near her; this endless ripping that is still just a tiny fraction of the pain Anastasia has caused.

(He's straining his ears, desperate for the slightest rustle of fabric that might mean she's coming after him, the smallest sound he could pretend was an apology, his name, a promise to change - any excuse to stay.)

She doesn't say a word.

He keeps walking.