Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world doesn't see you the way I see you. 

The world only sees the face they painted onto you. They carve your mask, and only I can see the tears underneath. They only see anger and pride, things benefiting their own image of you. I can see the fear and pain you hold, stamped across your face as if in bright blood-colored lettering.

They don’t know our past. They don’t know what we’ve been through together. They lie about the future, all while they dream of making it on the backs of their self-deluded stories.

Me and you, the ones tossed away and abandoned like broken toys, don’t get to dream. We don’t get to sit in the sunlight and daydream about the glorious future. We don't get to swing our legs on a wooden bench, trusting that the adult figures in our lives take care of us.

People like us only go two ways, I once read. They either make themselves anew and stick to it, or they become a chameleon. 

The truth is more complicated than that. It always is.

Words that imply that it is a binary system, a this or that, are never true. Identity is a double-edged sword; the more defined you say something is, the more you leave out the inevitable about of people who existed in the grey space in between. Chameleon or reinvented? Boy or girl? Quirked or quirkless? Lover or friend? Truth or lies? Good or evil?

Hero or villain?

Society is a shell game. What is a hero? Whatever a villain isn’t. What is a villain? Whatever a hero is not. Tap on it and it’s hollow. Look under the shells: it’s not there.

I love you so much. I love you as the mushrooms love the corpse, as the fang loves the bite, as the muzzle loves the speech. I love you as you love me, a mirror reflecting us.

I don’t love you like I love a lot of people. I love freely and easily because love should always be given. But usually, the love I share is the sweetness of crushes, whispers in hallways, and names written in the margins. 

I share the lightning of passion, hearts pumping, and bodies burning, leaving only behind dirty ash. I share the laughter that comes from being in the same presence as somebody, the giggles and jokes.

I don’t share that love with you.

Our love is different. 

Our love is dueling and sparring, a dance in trust and finely honed skills. Our love is holding memories of each other close to our chests, our hearts beating in sync lightyears away. Our love is you always save treats for me when you bake, so I can have them later.

Our love is held in messages in games because your devices get searched by our mother– the one who raised us and put a roof over our heads for a decade and fucked us up beyond reasonable parents. Our love is alleyways and rooftops, hiding from the patrolling heroes for hours of hushed and whispered conversations.

Our love is me watching you every time you appear on TV, reading as many articles and blog posts and everything as I possibly can about you and you doing the same for me. Our love is you leaving me things in our dead drops.

The sides we’re forced on are artificially constructed, shallow, and fake. And yet we stay on them because of the benefits it allows us.

I’ve heard people say that history is a circle, everybody repeating themselves over and over, like a dramaturgy of the world where all the actors are just rehashing the same boring old script, muddied with typos and flawed in execution. 

People then copy those scripts to try and clean things up, only for it to get dirty again, and repeat, distorting like the world's longest and worst game of telephone.

As a person, though, I’ve learned that history isn’t a circle. It’s a spiral; shaped like a slinky, not only moving around in time but also moving forward in history. People aren't just actors reading off of a bad script, they are adaptable people who learn from their predecessors' mistakes and make their own mistakes as well.

The past affects the future, bleeds through into the present, and orchestrates things even though it's long gone. 

And yet, in the midst of all this sprawling and cause and effect, we were born. And we loved each other – no, we do love each other.  And somehow we are important. Me and you are in the cusp of possibilities, of what society can be. 

Our lives are insignificant in the face of the universe, and yet we are going to impact the future. Instead of us getting bled into, getting influenced and affected by the past, we’re going to be the ones that influence the future. All with our measly little lives.

After all, how do you measure a life? 7 and a half decades? 52 years? 23 years and 8 months? 6 minutes? 30 heartbeats? A pair of ragged breaths?

Chapter Text

We have our conversations in the mid-tones of speech, a single sentence layered with meaning upon meaning upon meaning – history all the way down. We use words to convey subjects, to convey the meaning which those subjects take.

We lie in bed. You are in loose clothes, a white T-shirt stolen from an older sibling of mine, from a jokeful enemy of yours. I’m also in loose clothes, things stolen from their rightful owners with a smirk, knowing that they will never object to the taking.

We are curled around each other, a mess of hearts and limbs and secrets and heat, trust and deceit– you don’t trust anyone here, and yet you trust me entirely.

There is a stillness, an almost sickly hot-sweet quality to the silence – to break it would be to remember. That is what we are going to be doing tonight. There are times for silliness, lightness, and jokes. There are times for poison, for needles into hearts. There is time for hushed, frantic questions and worries. 

This is not one of those. This is a time for reminiscing, for recollecting, for making sure that we are still here. There is the Before, the anxiety, and the darkness. There are the wounds themselves, lacerations of emotions and psyches. And there is the healing, the banter, and lightness.

There is the checking in of scars, the counting, the licking of the wounds. That is the stage we are in now. We become the other, let ourselves meld. We whisper, for to do anything would be to betray the ritual we carry with us.

I start. I ask, how are the indentations?

You reply rudely, correcting me. You hate it when people pretend that things are any less than what they are, something that I do too often. You usually let me off the hook though, something that you don’t do with anybody else.

I laugh, an airy little giggle that seems to float around the top of the room like a fly. Okay, how are the dents then, I ask, correcting myself.

You hmm a noncommittal reply, but I and I alone can see the soft grin forming on your face, like a sun hiding behind a cloud, only able to know that it's there from the beams peeking in from the edges.

I can glean the meaning from simply that, a hum and a grin, like sucking out the marrow from a bone.

I know you enjoy the dents, know that you enjoy the proof, right there on your body, that I chose you again and again and again. The marks on your body mean you chose me again and again and again and again.

I don’t mean to spiral, just to explain, yet I can already feel myself lost in the wasteland that is my brain, following the runaway train of my thoughts.

You don’t have scars. The glycerin in your skin heals them, even though it's only a bastardized cousin of the real thing. The real thing is what keeps our mother looking so beautiful, is what keeps her famous and in work and unchained from us mere mortals, us mere children.

Laceration and contusions, the languages of the doctors we were barred from visiting, seemed to be permanent parts of us, traveling up and down but never leaving, and never leaving a mark on either of us.

We were unscarred, yet so broken. The only to permanently mar either of our bodies was through the taking away.

Starvation was like a father to me, with neglect as our guardian and abuse as our mother. I needed something I wasn’t allowed to have. I needed love, needed blood.

Maybe that’s where the wires got crossed in my brain, the childlike association of drinking blood and love. Maybe it's because you fed me in the only possible way you could.

I can’t remember any singular incidents, besides the first – they all blur together for me. I remember us in a bathroom (easier to clean up), in a classroom (I was starving), in a dorm (you were lonely), and in a park (we were bored). You take something sharp and cut down somewhere on your body just enough for it to bleed.

It’s technically self-harm, but you don’t do it for the reasons that other people do it. Whenever I’m not around, you don’t do it. You don’t do it for control, or the pain, or as a sort of punishment. You don’t even like doing it.

You simply love me.

You found me crouched in the garden, a bloody bird in my hands, blood smeared all over my mouth and face as I had sucked the bird dry. You grabbed supplies, hid the bird, helped me wash up, and then you made your offer.

It makes sense. Human blood is so much more filling than bird blood, especially if it’s from somebody I love.

We were so young back then, barely children. And yet you took a knife in trembling hands, took me and you to our bathroom. You searched all around for a place to open up yourself, to spill your blood in the name of love, while I got the bandages out. You had bruises on your back, a week-old cut on your shoulder, and burns scattered across your body like constellations.

And yet, and yet, you pulled up your shirt sleeve to reveal your very upper arm. You took your knife and cut, and I ate. I made sure to not take too much, to not drug you too much – my saliva has a natural anesthetic in it, designed to make the area around the wound numb.

After I had eaten, I took your arm and tenderly, carefully warped you up, peppering you with as much affection as I dared to. Maybe that’s when the wires got crossed. Seeing you sitting down there, loving and caring for you, all with the taste of your blood in my mouth, all with your cells in my throat.

I said that I wanted that to be the last time

You laughed. You said that they would never stop starving me.

I pouted, saying that I could control myself.

You took my hand with yours, saying that because you were there, you wouldn’t have to.

The rest– that's where it becomes a blur. I don’t remember the first time I bit down. I don’t remember the first time I took a bite. I don’t remember the first time I ate some of your flesh. I simply remember seeing the look in your eyes as you looked at the hollow, the indentation, the depression, the dent in your skin. 

It was on your outer thigh, just above your left knee. The bandage we had put on it was fully off now, and we could see the full extent of your work. You ran your fingers over it in awe, your first-ever scar. The first mark that proved what happened was real. 

You said later, that at the time you were more thinking about it as a memento of me.

Today, in the present, I wonder how many times you ran your hands over any one of them and thought of me. 

I know the exact placement of all my bitemarks, know how many there are, and could find you by touch alone.

Four on your outer left thigh, above the knee. Five more in a scattered trail across your calf. On the other side, seven in total, like a speckling of stars.

Three on your left forearm, and two on your right. On your right arm and shoulder, four, along with a rather large one. On your left arm and shoulder, seven. 

There's one on your neck and eight on your back. There are six on your stomach. There are then three more scattered all over.

In total, fifty-two, give or take. Scattered across a decade, a history of marks. Flesh is so much more satisfying than blood, yet few have allowed me to have it. Blood can be replaced, but flesh cannot.

When I ask you that question, I’m asking so much more than just about how the marks are doing.

I’m asking how you feel about them, Do you remember me, what do you think about our current relationship, how are you doing, do you like your scars, are you okay?

I’m asking so much more than what a casual observer might think.

You jolt me tenderly out of thought, with a casual Hey, fire-viewing child. 

It’s a play on words, on names. You can make the name I chose out of the components for the words fire, watching, and child. Names, said aloud, can be the same, but written down, means something entirely different

I reply with a Hey, transformation moon. Another play on words and names.

We realized that our normal names would be too easy to trace, especially online, so we came up with this way instead. It’s become an inside joke of sorts, a way to let the other know that they wanted to speak. A way to let the other know that they were safe to say what we wanted, now.

The silence filled the room again, relieved to be back where it belonged. I broke it with a soft, whatcha thinking? and a readjustment of position, the rustling of the sheets sound as loud as my voice in the still.

I look comfortable, you mention. The light of the room is gold, streaming in through the small and high window.

I say, just like a cat?

You reply with an affirmative, putting your gloved hand in my hair.

I hum a tune, something catchy I heard on the radio, about teeth and making things worse.

God, now you're even purring, I hear you say. What next, drop everything and become a furry?

Your hand in my hair, me in your lap, my hands on your scars, I laugh.

I make a little quip about how bad your sense of humor is, and how that must mean you’re alright.

Your hand slows for a second. You say that you are all right. 

I smile and put an end to the conversation. If you're ok, I say, then we just take a cuddly nap.

You pull my hair back, making me look up towards where you're sitting. I grumble out a question at your unhappy demeanor.

You never checked if I was ok, you say.

I quickly respond with a flat line about being ok. You narrow your eyes at me, and I crumble. I look down. I am, I swear. I’m a bit... Stressed and all, because I can’t see you as often or go outside, but that doesn't take away my okayness.

You look at me, considering my answer against your sibling instincts. You begrudgingly accept it, before you move around so that you're getting spooned by me, curled up in the bed together. 

I look at you. I wonder, why did you become so big? I wonder, when did you change? I sort these questions into boxes that belong at the back of my mind, and I stack them in my little library of stuff to ask about later.

Our breathing is in sync, my hand is over your scars, our hearts can hear each other's rhythm, and we are connected.

I fall with you. I fall with you to sleep.

Chapter Text

I wonder what guilt tastes like to you.

Because to me, it has many tastes. The metallic taste of blood stuck to my face, and my clothes, a feeling coating my taste buds in a wonderful delight of sadness. It tastes like warmth and a sticky sweet salty flavor, warmth in my stomach and hot skin pressed against hot skin. It tastes like the bitter taste of sleep in the back of my mouth, curled up and with and around you, of lazy summer afternoons and rooftops and alleys.

It tastes like the salted caramel sweetness of not being what you think of me, of dresses and skirts and being a boy. It tastes like bubbled-up watermelon laughter, slightly on the edge of being too sour, playing fighting over a game in a ratty lair that holds more warmth than it should be able to with its mediocre insulation.

My guilt tastes like holding things too close, of taking more than I deserve. My guilt tastes like wanting the moon and getting it holding on tight and them asking for the stars.

There’s something about space I’ve always loved. Pretty silver lights in the sky that we say often. And we made stories, so many stories out of the stars that hang in the sky. We’ve connected them with lines and months and feelings. We’ve taken things we can never touch or affect and made it our own.

I wonder if your guilt tastes like snapped remarks and anger, like pushing people away. I wonder if your guilt tastes cold, like ice cream on tongs and ice packs on bruises.

I know you to your very soul, would know you in a room blind, and yet I still somehow wonder about you.

You are a mystery wrapped in a puzzle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a cipher. I love and hate seeing and hearing about you doing things I never would’ve expected you to do. You’re growing up, with something that tastes like shitty ice pops and sickly sweet cereal and nostalgia.

I’m growing up as well. 

You grow into something majestic, while I simply morph into a new form.

The new you isn’t afraid to open up, while the new me opens up in all the wrong ways. The new you save instead of simply just winning, while I have never saved anybody or won something before.

You move too much, while I don't move at all. I get too close, I latch on too fast, while you have normal healthy relationships with normal healthy people. You are so much that it is breathtaking, fearmaking. 

You call people out and make them confront themselves, while I simply let it all slide over people, being a mediator, a bridge, a smother of feeling. I hide my work behind craziness and bloodlust, behind what people expect to see from blood starved 17 year old ditzy blond blood quirked girl. 

I feel inferior, but I have always felt below you. I keep my guilt and cradle it close to my chest, letting it fester into a comforting heat that I can feel when I breathe.

I remember the price of my and your happiness every time I see you, our meetings hushed and ashamed.

One taste of guilt we have in common is the time we spend together We intertwine.

It’s like a weight in my lungs. I can feel it whenever I breathe. It stutters me, makes me forget to breathe, makes me run colder and hungrier and have less appetite and be more tired and sleep less and be hornier and become disjointed.

It fuels me to my brand of self-destruction. Staying up too late on important days, licking the edge of a knife, turning away from the fridge, leaving the water on just a bit too hot to be comfortable. 

The guilt inside of me takes up residency in the hollow space between my bones and my breath. I dance on railroad tracks then walk back juggling knives, fingertips burned from too-hot glass.

After a certain point, I’m not sure it's just guilt. There is grief kicking it – grief for the childhood that I never got to have, grief for the girl who I was before, grief for the people who I met and forgot and learned valuable things but forgot their names.

This is a heaviness to me, a deliberate range of movements, moving through the air as if it's slowing me down. My bones hurt – the tops of my shins, my upper thighbones, the ones all around my shoulders. My movements are either energized or dead-looking.

I’m carved from beauty, from the darkness in between. People don’t understand that people like me and my friends are made. You were so close to being made into a villain, but society decided that nitroglycerin and explosion were heroic instead of dangerous.

You nearly slipped into the cracks, but the concrete had just enough grip. You are friends of villains, of murderers and abominations and thieves, but you are not a villain yet. You are a murderer and an abomination and a thief, and I know because I saw.

You hurt people so much, and you've also hurt so much. You love with the energy and passion of a thousand thousand stars, you love like how the void loves the sky.

I simply love people who will never return the weight of my affection, I flash my teeth at people who are already scared of me, skip and lay in bed for 6 hours, and I am painfully, painfully human.

I’m hyper-aware of my fragility and my humanity, or my consciousness and my sanity, of my health, physical and mental. They can slip away from my slippery hands, so I hold onto them as best as I possibly can

I treat myself delicately in some aspects and rough in others. I love myself and hate myself, embrace my humanity and let myself go wild and free, and also hold grief and guilt like a second heart.

I breathe in. Out. I swing the knife and take a life. I drink until I’m full, then go have sex with my girlfriend, then sob in my bathroom, then put on a skirt and cuddle you.