Hot, the water is so hot, but it's not working. Heat is supposed to sterilise, to wash away dirt and grime, but why doesn't he feel clean?

It hurts, his hands are red and raw and itchy from all the soap and hot water, but he can't stop, he won't stop until his hands are clean, but it's been months, and he doesn't feel any cleaner.

The bathroom mirror has been covered by his discarded sniper hood, König doesn't want to look at the monster that took the life of his Schatz, the villain that didn't stop squeezing, even as your hands shook and pulled at his own, even as your beautiful eyes rolled back in your head.

You stand there, leaning against the doorframe, still in the pyjamas you wore that day, with that ring of bruises around your neck, in the shape of his hands.

König knows you're not real, that ghosts aren't real, and you're not really haunting him, but that doesn't stop the terror that takes hold of his heart and squeezes until it turns to putty in his chest and his blood turns to ice in his veins.

It was an accident, König would never hurt you on purpose, but he did hurt you, he did, and it can never be undone. He'd had a nightmare, and in his panic, he'd wrapped his large hands around your little throat and squeezed in much the same way his heart feels right now.

By the time he came to, it was too late, and he can't get the image of your pale face out of his head, no matter how hard he tries, how he'd betrayed the trust of his Liebling, his Sonne und Sterne, and you'll never forgive him.

That doesn't stop him from begging for it, though. König drops painfully to his knees, as he does every time his hallucination of you appears, hands stretching out for a brief moment before reeling back like the very idea of touching you burns him to the core and clasping them together as if in prayer.

Maybe he is praying, praying that you'll leave and never come back, praying that you'll never leave again. "Mein Liebling," König's voice cracks, as if he hasn't used it in days. "Es tut mir leid, es tut mir so leid," his head lowers, even kneeling at your feet, he's still so large. Somehow, you look even smaller every time he sees you, he doesn't recall you looking this fragile.

"Bitte verzeih mir, ich liebe dich über alles!" It clicks that you don't understand German, so he takes a deep shuddering breath, trying to recall the English words, a force of habit. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please, please forgive me..."

His voice is small, Austrian accent curling around each whispered word. "Bitte, Schatzi, bitte stop this," his greasy brown-blonde hair falls into his eyes, he hasn't showered in weeks, and it shows. "I love you more than anything, I'm sorry."

König knows he has no right to say these things, the pet names and his confessions of love feeling like ash in his mouth. "Bitte Liebling, forgive me..."