3/27/21 -- Monday -- 8:40 -> 9:32
Emilia’s Bakery

Taevion returned just in time to see Blue guzzling down almost the entirety of the last ¾ of his bottle of wine in one sitting. If the sight didn’t turn Taevions’ stomach, he might actually be impressed. As it was, he was only somewhat impressed and mostly worried.

He watched for a moment as Blue finished, wiping his lips with his bloody hand and smudging even more across his face. Teavion was reminded, suddenly of the bloody handprint adorning his face. God, he must be a sight- a sleep-bleary and tousled, with blood on his face and hand. He hoped the blood on his hand was from the counter and not from the wounds he had gained from absorbing Blue’s pain. He wasn’t in the mood to try and dance around what his power actually was with little white lies.

Taevion watched, silently, as the other turned to him before his eyes went wide with surprise and he stepped (read: stumbled) back, the bottle almost slipping from his hand.

“JESUS GODDAMN CHRIST!” he snarled in surprise, trying to regain his footing and almost doing so. The other rested heavily against the counter in order to stop himself from falling, near the plate that held the remnants of his meal. Taevion eyed it carefully; the other was hungrier than he had assumed. His immediate reaction was to walk right back into the kitchen and find the other some more food to eat, maybe with milk, but he stopped himself. First, he had to take care of his hand. Wash his own face, maybe.

Blue, meanwhile, carried on ranting as if Taevion had just dishonored his entire ancestral line with his very existence.

“You fucking piece of shit!” he cried, eye wide and shocked, leaning down on himself as he regained his breath. “You motherfucker. You twiddling piece of ass.”

Not the most creative insults Taevion had ever had directed at him, but they were up there. Taevion simply waited, fingers twitching against the first aid kit that he placed on the counter. Blue straightened up, glaring daggers at him. Taevion simply sent him back his usually, civilly neutral stare. It was a look he had perfected long before when he didn’t dare let others know how he felt about anything, lest it be used against him. It wasn’t his relaxed visage- he hadn’t used that in a while. Piper had always liked it better than his neutral face- “It’s like you’re smiling without actually smiling. It’s in your eyes, I guess. Mom’s eyes.”

Taevion felt a twinge of sadness at that and was almost glad to have the other deviant near to distract him from his thoughts. Almost.

Blue’s eyes softened ever so slightly, which Taevion assumes means he is calming down, and his mouth had twitched down into more of a pout than anything. Even though Taevion thinks it would be better to keep his guard up, his traitorous body responds to the slight show of retreat, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly, as he came to rest more comfortably on his feet, no longer up on his toes. He fought a grimace, he hadn’t realized how tense he had been. He already had an ache developing from sleeping on the couch; this couldn’t be much better for him.

Blue continues on his tirade, though with somewhat less passion. “How the hell are you that… that-that… that quiet?” he demanded, eyes wide with fierce surprise, and- if Taevion had to put a name to it- genuine curiosity. He doesn’t quite know how to feel about that. He has always been quiet, even before his powers first showed. This isn’t the first time he’s surprised someone like this, though; Michael complains all the time about his silence when he stays over, incredulous about his ability to “sneak” through his house, squeaky floorboards be damned. In order to offset this, Taevion began to try and make more noise. Not that he had to, he just wanted his host to feel comfortable.

...Well, that and Michael’s constant stream of comparisons between Taevion and his sister. They usually only come out when the man is drunk; he’s usually quiet otherwise. Taevion should be used to it, but every time he is reminded of how unlike his sister is, he immediately tries to do as she would do. Tries to walk like her, talk like her. It doesn’t work, of course- he’s not his sister and he doesn’t think he could ever replace her. God, he’s tried. But he just can’t.

“My middle finger salutes you,” Blue finishes, letting out a loud breath. Taevion is somewhat curious about his outburst; he doesn’t think that his silence really bothered the other as much as he was showing, but in the end, he doesn’t know. Taevion has gotten very good at reading people. Even better than Emilia. But Blue… he’s nothing like Taevion has ever seen before.

Blue seems to rethink becoming quiet, as his mouth opens, his eye narrowing as he apparently racks his brain for more insults, but promptly lets it fall closed. Taevion is momentarily confused, unsure of quite what stopped the other deviant, but this is quickly resolved as Blue steps forward and makes a grab for the first aid kit. Taevion probably could have stopped him, yet he felt no need to do so. As long as he used the supplies to bandage his hand, it was fine.

Taevion did notice, however, the brush of his gloved hand against Taevions’ own. Thank god it wasn’t the one that had absorbed the damage, or else Blue might come to his own conclusions about Taevions’ power, and Taevion wasn’t quite sure he wanted to give up that advantage quite yet.

“I can deal with my own hand myself,” he mumbled, and Taevion watched as he retreated away from him to bandage his wounds, reminiscent of a cat going off to sulk after losing a fight. Taevion considered, for a moment. He might as well wrap his own hand, in case it had started bleeding, but once again, he didn’t want Blue to come to any conclusions. It was bad enough the other had recognized he was a deviant. Or… did he? Taevion wasn’t actually sure, now that he thought it over. He had guessed that he was working with the Underground, which was right… maybe it was better to keep it under wraps. After all, not a lot of people did actually know he was a deviant. Just some of the other higher-ups in the Underground and some of the younger deviants he had healed before.

Perhaps it was for the best.

Blue is working on his own hand. Taevion’s eyes can’t help but be drawn to his arm, which was less of an arm and more of a stick, and the small white lines crisscrossing it. Taevion’s stomach dropped as a sudden force of memories scattered through his mind, and he pulled himself back to that place, that feeling he had perfected, where it felt as if he were stepping away, looking at the world from behind several shields. His body stayed still for a moment, as the memories taunted him before he fell far enough away into that terribly still place where he could observe things without really feeling.

He stayed in that place for a moment, letting his eyes glaze over, his open form becoming limp and almost lifeless, his back straight as a board.

Taevion could stay there, get lost in that still, peaceful place for the rest of his life, but inevitably, his eyes are drawn once again to the other deviant, who was currently pouring the entire bottle of cleaning alcohol on his hand. He had forgotten Emilia kept one in her kit. If he had, he would have hidden it- he had seen Blue guzzling the wine, he didn’t need him getting even drunker and inevitably dying off of ingesting rubbing alcohol. Still, this thought doesn’t seem to occur to the other deviant, who has left the empty bottle in the puddle of blood and alcohol on Emilia’s counter.

That would be fun to clean up.

Still, Taevion becomes only more worried as he sees the way the other bandages his hand. It’s clear he knows, at the very least, how to bandage somewhat properly, but the bandage looks too loose with all of the gauze. Taevion fights the urge to step forward and help the other. Blue had already made it very clear that he could take care of himself, and even if Taevion didn’t exactly trust his judgment, he didn’t dare tell him otherwise.

Still, Blue is surprisingly efficient. If he was still on the run, that might be the way Taevion bandages his hands. Well, without less expense of resources. But, still- it was fine, just not incredibly professional. Piper would probably criticize him for not stepping forward to tell the other off, talking about infection and blood flow and other things she had picked up in her time training as an EMT and medical assistant.

But Taevion wasn’t her, and he wasn’t going to be doing any of that.

Blue seems to think he’s done a fine enough job, because he turns back to face Taevion from across the counter with a lazy grin, completely ignoring the alcohol that soaked into his jacket’s sleeve where he rested it on the counter. Taevion watched a droplet of the liquid fall down the side of the display case for a moment, before his eyes were directed back up at the mess of blue before him, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he spoke.

“So, you wanted to talk?” he asked, and his voice sounds much more innocent than his eye ever has. Taevion immediately feels his demeanor change ever so slightly, responding in kind to the hidden threat in the other boys’ demeanor. His eyes fall slightly to the left, refusing to meet the others’ more predatory gaze, and while his arms remain at his sides, fists unclenched, he is wary, rigid, ready to move. He adjusts his weight, too, as he comes to stand more on his toes. It’s not much, barely anything, but if you were well-attuned to him, you would easily find his discomfort.

“I can do that,” Blue promises, and for a moment, Taevion might even be afraid. This situation feels off, with alarm bells ringing in every corner of his mind. Be careful, his brain warns him. His eyes focus on the wall to the left, to the wallpaper resembling that of the 1920s in its design, with neat lines of Nerium flowers crossing it in a shade of pale pink against a cream wall. Taevion had always disliked it, thinking it to be ugly, a fact that Emilia quickly picked up on.

“I agree, it’s atrocious,” she had laughed, but her gaze had grown contemplative as she spoke. “It’s vintage, but I don’t care about that. No, it’s the symbolism, I think.”

A strange thing to say. A strange thing for Taevion to remember. Yet, he knew what it meant. His mind was trying to distract itself, pulling him back into that place. Taevion wouldn’t mind it, but at the same time, he felt too on edge to try and find safety and comfort in his own mind. There was too much happening out here.

Blue seemed to be trying to catch his eyes quite hard, and while Taevion was interested in the other, he found he couldn’t quite look him in the eye. It would be easy enough, of course. So easy. And yet.

---- Taevion, cont. -----

His heart is shuddering in his chest. This is wrong, this is wrong, something is wrong. Fear fills him, not quite paralyzing, but almost. He just wanted the other to say something, to throw the plate separating them on the counter to the floor, to scream, to shout, to push Taevion to the ground. Anything was better than this silence, this hesitation. Taevion liked silence, he thrived in it, but this was something else, loaded with meaning he couldn’t comprehend.

And then, in the space of less than a moment, Blue slammed both of his hands on the counter, a crash of noise against the silence. If Taevion were smart, he would flinch, retreat far away, punch the other in the nose. But instead, his visceral reaction simply becomes to fall into himself. His entire body wants to shrink, for his knees to bend ever so slightly, to slump in on himself, eyes caught on the tiles of the floor as he desperately stopped himself from shaking, his hands clenched into each other, hidden behind his back.

Those same memories he had been forcing out before came racing back, permeating his mind, playing over and over. And instead of the end, that shaking hand reaching out to him as Piper peered through at him, one hand clasped around Michael’s wrist, the other held out to him. A promise on her lips.

Taevion is going to throw up.

Yet, instead of falling back to his old vices, he does something that might be stupider or smarter, another reaction, one taught by himself that speaks of self-control and restraint.

He stays still. His stance remains open, his face neutral and unaffected. His eyes faced away, only somewhat glazed over, his chin up as he waits. Fear courses through his veins, so thick it makes him sick, but he does not dare move, falling back into that place where he can watch, unaffected and still. Here, the pain will come only in echos. Here, he can be safe.

Blue’s innocent, yet playful grin becomes something malicious. Taevion forces himself to keep his eyes open, not even daring to blink. Do it, he thinks. Do it. I’m ready.

He was expecting a punch to the face. Yet, all he got was another sudden and inexplicable change to Blue’s demeanor. The other let his shoulders slump, eye crinkling at its edge as he let out what seemed to be close to a genuine smile. Almost, almost- it was right there on the edge, but there was still something off about it.

It was the look in his eyes, Taevion was sure. Much too clear and contemplative to be from someone who was not only drunk, but half-dead and, as far as Taevion could tell, somewhat unhinged. Who was this person that he dared to try and know? Was it smart? He should just go, run while he still could.

He didn’t move. Somehow, he knew he was going to regret that later. Regret it a lot.

“Get ready to regret wanting a conversation with me! HA!” Blue let out a loose laugh, surprisingly deep for his high, almost nasal voice. Taevion still didn’t know if he could move, body locked in place. Not because he wasn’t able to, no. It was instead due to the fact that if he dared let up on his death grip on his self-control, he was afraid he would run. And he couldn’t. He wouldn’t dare. He might not know Blue at all, might have the other be a complete mystery to him, but he was learning. And as far as he could tell, showing any sort of weakness, any crack in the mask of indifference, well. That wouldn’t be good.

Taevion didn’t like being vulnerable in general. He had been called weak enough times for his kindness. Had been told he wouldn’t last long.

But he had. He had lasted long, even longer than many of those who scoffed at genuine warmth and agreeability. Taevion could understand why.

But Piper’s words lived in his mind. “You do not have to be soft to be kind, Taevi. Kindness is not forged in innocence, nor naivety. It is not niceness. The only way to truly be able to give out warmth is if you were forged in fire.”

Piper was so poetic when she wanted to be. It was always a strange switch to see her go from playful and wild to wise and thoughtful. Somehow, Taevion could almost see the beginnings of that same trait in Blue, if only used for different reasons.

Taevion suddenly didn’t know how to feel about Blue anymore. He had only picked up on so many things, one of those being that Blue was dangerous. Yet, there was something magnetic about him, in the sharp, unconventional beauty of his face, the intelligence in his eyes.

Taevion could already tell this was going to be a trainwreck.

“Let’s commerce with the introductions, shall we?” Blue continued, his demeanor almost merry. Taevion felt his muscles slowly unlocking, and he blinked, realizing he hadn’t done so for quite a while. Once again, that wave of annoyance washed over him. So fickle was his body- he could tell that the danger was still there, lurking under the surface, latent. And yet, his body still went through those miniscule changes that signaled whether he was comfortable or not.

Not that he was anywhere near feeling comfortable at the moment. God, no.

“I’m Blue,” said Blue, helpfully, “but you clearly already knew that. Now-” he clapped his hands together, which sent a jolt of pain through Taevions’ own hand, yet was not nearly as effective as the first time he had made such loud noise. Taevion wasn’t sure how to feel about how easily he adapted to being in the others’ presence. It made him feel… easy to read.

He refused to be. Better to let someone think they know how you feel then actually know. All Blue had to see was that Taevion wasn’t flinching, wasn’t intimidated. That was all. That was-

“I’m going to throw a dart now, and hopefully it hits its mark.”

Shit. Taevion hadn’t been listening. He heard Blue’s words- something about how he wasn’t good at darts- but he hadn’t really been paying attention. A mistake, Taevion was willing to bet.

Blue smiled evilly at him, and continued, his eyes narrowing. Taevion felt a strange level of apprehension. He knew enough to tell when he was being lied to, and thus spoke of manipulation. But Blue was not lying, simply observing. Just… watching for a reaction.

Taevion suddenly felt very sure that he would never, ever give him one.

““You’re a deviant, too, aren’t you? Associated with the Underground, mayhaps?”

Taevion carefully kept up his demeanor as Blue studied his face, letting the silence stretch out between them. Taevion didn't particularly want to reveal that he was a deviant. He still didn’t have to.

For the first time since the conversation had begun, perhaps even since they had met, Taevion caught Blue’s gaze, staying neutral, almost to the point of apathy. Then, he blinked. One simple, singular movement. He didn’t care if the other new he was part of the Underground. He cared a little bit about him knowing he was a deviant. So, he let Blue come to his own conclusions. If needs be, he could always correct the other later- or, let other people who didn’t know he was a deviant do it for him. For now, though, he let the other talk. He didn’t want to lie any more than he had to.

And then he was talking again. It seemed he was done playing games (at least, done playing any that mattered) and was ready to word-vomit all over everything. Taevion only half-listened as he went on, ignoring the remarks about his name with resigned complacency. His words were all worth nothing, Taevion noted, just something to fill the space with, chatter meant to annoy. Blue was very good at doing this. Taevion was very aware that this was a game Blue had perfected, one he played to win.

Taevion wasn’t playing to win. He would rather not play at all, but there was only so much you could have. So, instead, he decided, not to oppose Blue in his little contest, but instead, to play for his side.

Blue finished up with his words, his hand reaching out across the counter to grab his bottle of wine. Taevion’s eyes followed it for only a moment, before glancing back to looking near Blue’s eye, but not quite. The deviant took the bottle and tipped it up, up, up until it was completely vertical, Blue’s pale neck exposed. Taevion refused to stare. Instead, he watched as Blue quickly came to realize the bottle was empty. He pulled the bottle from his lips, looking utterly betrayed, and Taevion felt a twinge of sympathy. An undeserved one, some might say. Taevion didn’t agree. It was unnecessary, but not undeserved. Everybody deserved to be comfortable.

Blue stared at the bottle, as if willing more wine to appear. When it did not, slammed it onto the countertop with enough force to shatter it. The bottle was surprisingly sturdy, though, and stood tall. Blue contemplated it for a moment, hand still clenched around its neck, before letting out a quiet murmur of, “Oh, fuck me so hard my dick falls off.”

Taevion had the foreign urge to laugh. He didn’t dare.

With another loud sigh, Blue carelessly tossed the bottle behind him. Taevion watched it’s path through the air, fully expecting to be cleaning up glass shards as well tonight, yet being pleasantly surprised when it landed easily in a trashcan, barely grazing the side of the bin.

Blue looks more surprised than Taevion lets himself feel at this, but only for a second, so quick Taevion wonders if he only imagined it.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because Blue has already moved on. His mouth is moving fast, but not fast enough it seems, as his brain is going faster. He quickly began to recount his siblings, explaining that he was the twelfth in his family. Taevion was unsure if he meant in age or otherwise. His words are so fast that it’s hard for Taevion to catch any details, but the general gist of the conversation is easy enough to follow.

He speaks of his siblings, says all of their names, and there is another emotion there, one Taevion is sure he hasn’t seen the other wear. Sadness. Melancholy.

Blue must realize this as well, because just as fast as his demeanor drooped, it’s back up again, wild and uninhibited.

“Joshua’s older than me,” he continues, “He’s… What? Nineteen now? Somewhere ‘round that. Fratineto’s the youngest. She was nine back when I was thirteen. Emmy’s… fifteen now. Huh. Brat’s growing now. Anyway, next up’s Ami, and she’s… sixteen? Sixteen. No, wait… Fifteen. Turning sixteen, right, right. ‘Cause her birthday’s in April. Phew, will that be a day.

“M. Her name’s a fucking letter. Not ‘Em’ short for ‘Emma’, but the letter. No one knows why, but she up and decided that she’d be called a letter, and ‘Kana was, like, whelp, we’ve got a Twenty-Three in our numbers, so why the hell not? But, yeah, M’s… twenty this year. She’ll be turning twenty-one. Fuckin’ shit, they’re growing, huh?”

Blue’s words were punctuated with a sad laugh, that might not have been so sad, or might have been sadder. Taevion didn’t know that the other had siblings- maybe Michael knew of them. He didn’t interrupt, though.

Blue continued on, his words fond, and Taevion couldn’t help but be reminded of Piper. Taevion didn’t remember much about his childhood, but he knew it wasn’t terrible. Piper used to tell him stories about it, good ones with two loving, albeit faceless parents, warm laughter and cooking s’mores on a camping trip. The way her eyes had lit up as she did, her wild gesticulations- yes, it was easier to see her in Blue when he wasn’t actively trying to deceive or threaten Taevion in some way. They even had that same light that adorned their eyes when speaking of fond or exciting memories.

Blue’s words were slowly turning to mush, Taevion realized, as he leaned heavily against the counter, the puddle of alcohol seeping into his shirt where it had begun to make its way down the counter. Blue looked less… more, in this lighting, with his eye a second away from dreamy. Taevion found it much easier to observe him, his little mannerisms, the way his whole body shook when he laughed, even when it was nothing more than a throaty chuckle. Blue seemed like the type of person who did everything big because he was afraid of fading into the background noise. Taevion didn’t know what to make of that.

Blue continued on with his one-sided conversation. It felt as if Taevion was intruding, almost, even though the words were, in theory, meant for his ears. It shouldn’t surprise him that Blue was a talkative drunk, if anything, it should make sense. Blue seemed to be surprisingly open about a lot of aspects of his life, almost as if he liked talking about these things. Once again, this reminded him of Piper. She was a talkative drunk as well- it seemed most of the others he knew were. He wondered why that was.

Taevion was the opposite. Not that he had been drunk recently- in fact, he would much rather never have to get drunk again. Most people drank to forget, but for Taevion, it only seemed to make him remember. He wasn’t very tolerant, anyway- not any more.

Taevion only half-listened, even though he felt as if he should be more attentive. These people were obviously important to Blue; Taevion could understand caring about siblings. And yet,hearing Blue talk warmly (albeit very drunkenly) about them hurt him. He didn’t really have what Blue had anymore. A family. Michael was the closest thing, and Taevion still knew the only reason he really kept Taevion was around was due to a sense of guilt. He blamed himself for what happened, maybe even more than Taevion blamed himself.

But there was something nice about hearing Blue talk. His voice was less abrasive when he was drunk, slurring heavily at the edges like syrup spilling from a cup, dribbling down in slow, heavy droplets. Taevion couldn’t feel comfortable, especially not after what happened earlier, but it wasn’t the worst thing to have to put up with.

Blue looked as if he was going to fall onto the ground, so after a moment of consideration, Taevion padded carefully around the counter, gesturing for Blue to follow him as he made his way to one of the couches by the fireplace.

Blue didn’t seem to realize he was moving as he continued to speak, but at the very least, he neared closer to where Taevion was sitting. He didn’t come close enough to sit, though, still leaning heavily on the counter, half facing away from him.. Taevion watched him warily; he didn’t mind seeming passive, but he still didn’t like the idea of sitting while Blue was still up on his feet, even if he was heavily inebriated. Still, Taevion felt it might be awkward if he stood. So he stayed sitting, still feeling incredibly awkward but masking his emotions with a neutrally interested visage.

Blue mentioned he was turning eighteen in December, conforming Taevion’s assumptions that they were around the same age. Blue hiccoughed, his eyes fluttering. He was tired, then. It made sense, yet the discrepancy from his bright and almost manic demeanor was hard to wrap his brain around. Maybe it was the alcohol, he reasoned.

Probably not.

--- Taevion, cont ----

“Yes, I know,” Blue is saying. “There’s a lot of us. Back when I was, like, thirteen, there were eight of us in a room at the same time. Chaos. Chaos everywhere. I had to claim my couch whenever I got up to get a drink. Like, I’d get up and be all ‘That’s mine. I claim this couch. My couch! Mine. Nobody touch tha’! Nobody sit on th’t ‘cause it’s mine. All m’ne!’. And of course my little shitheads of little brothers--that wou’ be Andy ‘n’ Nathan, deffo not Emmy ‘cause Emmy’s a’ways gon be an angel; it’s Andy and Nathan, the troublemakers’re worse th’n me, and I’m a disaster--well, they di’n’t give ten fucks. I’d come back five s’conds l’t’r and their asses would be on th’t shit. Assholes, them.”

Blue let out something that might have been a giggle, if only it weren’t so low. Taevion wished he would come to claim a couch. He only watched him though, staying carefully still. Blue has seemingly forgotten he was in the room, or perhaps he didn’t care. It felt like this conversation wasn’t for him.

Blue’s stance only supported this conclusion. His body was slumped across the counter, supported by his elbows and forearms, his head bowed so low that his forehead might as well be pressed against the counter’s surface. Taevion remembers the puddle of blood and alcohol, and grimaces. Blue doesn’t seem to care, though.

Blue seems to try and take the time to figure out where Taevion went off to, because he looks around, blinking steadily, his form shaky. When he finds Taevion on the couch, he blinks, unseeing. He grins, but it seems sloppy like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

Unexpectedly, Blue continues his voice nothing but a mess of syllables and slurs. “Tha’s… that’s--uhm--that’s us. Them. So, like, what ab’t… what abou’ you? Got any--” hic-- “fam’ly?”

Taevion freezes for a moment, contemplating. He doesn’t know what to say. Usually, he is content to let others talk (Taevion has found that people enjoy talking about themselves) but this is a direct question.

He glances back at Blue, to see the other doesn’t really seem to be… there, his eyes far away. He looks like he’s seconds away from passing out. Sighing, Taevion stands and walks over to him, intent on leading him to the couches. He doesn’t want to have to clean up any more blood tonight than necessary, and the way that Blue is swaying against the counter speaks of trouble. Blue is much closer to the ground than he is, being about five foot one, but he still doesn’t trust the conglomeration of Blue to not fall on the ground and split open his skull.

Taevion decides to compromise, coming up next to the other and holding out an arm out behind his back, not daring to touch. His hands are shaking, he realizes, belatedly. Still, Blue might be too drunk to notice. Perhaps even too drunk to remember any conversation Taevion makes right now.

“Come over to the couch,” he murmurs. “You look like you’re going to fall over.” His voice is soft, barely anything louder than a murmur, and phrased in such a way that it sounds more like an invitation than a command. Good.

Without really waiting for Blue to move, Taevion pulls away slightly, watching carefully to make sure the other doesn’t stumble and fall. In order to make his invitation more effective, he speaks. Blue looks out of it already- Taevion doubts he’ll remember much of this in the morning.

Still, his words are careful as he speaks. Emilia likes to tease him about that- how easily others open up to him, while still knowing almost nothing about himself. She’s one of the few people who has learned to see through his mask, a feat few have ever managed. There is a certain level of understanding in her gaze whenever she sees him close himself off, go away to that place, fade from reality for a bit. She never says anything, but Emilia speaks better in actions, a trait Taevion shares.

“I… certainly don’t have as many siblings as you,” he admits. He wonders, suddenly, if he should even mention Piper- it’s a sore spot, and Blue seems like the kind of person who would poke at it. But Blue did trust him with the information about his siblings, and from what Taevion can tell, they are very important to him. So, perhaps that trust can be reciprocated.

So he continues.

“I only… I only have one,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes to the ground as he tries to pull Blue over to the couches, find the most comfortable one, and sitting as close to the fire as possible. He keeps his voice low, barely more than a whisper, so Blue has to work very hard to listen to him. “She w- she’s older than me. She’d be twenty-one now, I think. She is, I mean.” He suddenly found he wasn’t too keen on revealing her status. Besides, it wasn’t as if- it wasn’t a given. There was no way to prove anything.

“She… she’s my only real family,” he explains, then pauses. “Or, I guess, blood-related. I have other people that I’m… close with,” (as close as he would allow himself to get with anyone, at least.) “Michael is one. Michael Meere. He’s twenty-two. We’re- I stay at his house, sometimes.” Sometimes was an understatement, but Blue didn’t need to know that.

“Otherwise, I guess I’m friendly with Emilia- she owns this bakery. Lets me stay, as long as I help out with some of the cleaning. And watch over some of the younger kids on the street. Not that I can do much- I’m not really…” he shrugs. “You know.”

He lets Blue fill that in as he likes, mostly due to the fact that he doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like talking about himself. It makes his skin itch, letting a perfect and probably dangerous stranger know about him. He glances over to see if Blue ended up following him to the couches, or if he just up and collapsed on the floor without Taevion noticing. He was done talking for now. This wasn’t what he wanted to talk about, anyway. But Blue didn’t seem to be in any state to talk about things like his deviancy or the Underground. Even if he was, he was still drunk. Taevion didn’t want to take advantage of the fact that he had a careless mouth when he was drunk. So, instead, he waited.

《 ♧ 》

(Yep. This is shit. I meant to edit it, bc I wrote a lot of it at like, 2 in the morning, so sorry if it's terrible. But, here it is! I meant to post yesterday, but I ended up have a school thing literally all day, and then when I got home I just fuckin' collapsed, so that was fun.)

Emilia’s Bakery

“Come over to the couch. You look like you’re going to fall over.”

Some distant part of him, buried under an ocean of wine, agrees.

It’s quiet. He can think, but he can’t think at all. He can’t think, but he produces thoughts.

How irritating.

A mist, a fog, an impenetrable layer of something that smothers his mind--what the boy seeks at the bottom of every bottle. The cause of his world fading in and out of existence isn’t as paramount as whiskey or gin or brandy; he can still think, unfortunately, albeit scarcely, his brain’s operations reduced to scant plans of tomorrow. He knows only just, knows of things revolving around what he’ll do upon the sun’s arrival--clipped, short, a convoluted mess of words and images and phrases that takes all his energy to decipher: he’ll find his way back to the alley beside the laundromat, where he left his duffel bag, and then make a quick stop to a bar, likely Raven’s, where, hopefully, Acton will readily hand him his daily delicacy. Exactly how he’ll go through with this when he has no idea what part of San Francisco he’s even in is lost to the great 18% alcohol content in his least favorite tipple worming its way to every corner of his body.

He’ll deal with it tomorrow.

Or the day after that.

It depends on when his inevitable hangover decides to go fuck itself.

And also on whether or not he finds something else to drown himself with.

He wants to talk. His thoughts are getting too much, now. There needs to be something, something, something--because sherry wine isn’t strong enough. Sherry wine doesn’t make him wonder if his heart will stop. He needs to wonder if his heart will give up soon; it is the only thought he’s willing to permit.

But he can do nothing else but slowly succumb to the sweet release of unconsciousness. Not death, tragically, despite all his efforts in coaxing its sticky fingers all over him, but temporary darkness is, at least, the closest thing he can get to it.

There is a voice, velvety, mellow, delicate, one that is as lugubrious as it is mollifying. It curls around him in gentle wisps, cloaking him in warmth, like that blanket Finn made for him, that blanket he burned alongside everything that was beautiful--because Blue is like that, when he lets the potent bitterness possess him. But the voice chases even that away; it takes the virulence that fills his mind in the liquor-induced absence of batty thoughts and deranged ideas and gut-wrenching fantasies, and replaces it with something he doesn’t want to put a name to, something that is too pleasant to exist with someone like him.

“I… cert…ly don’t… as… siblings… you.” The voice fades--in and out, in and out, like breathing that stutters, like heartbeats that falter. “I… only… one.” One, one, one. One: the loneliest number. What a strange thought. “… she... only… fam...ly… I… blood…” Blood, blood, blood, goes his neurons, and then blue, blue, blue, red to blue, red to blue, life to poison--what a peculiar comparison. In, out. In, out.

He drifts.

“Mi…ael… one.” He hates that number. “Michael Meere.” A name? Two names? A name, a name, that’s all that counts. “He’s twenty-two.”

Twenty-two. Twenty-Three. Which one was never reached, again? He searches, he recalls, he remembers that there is wine poisoning his blood and that he shouldn’t try remembering at all.

He drifts. He floats.

“O…erwi…, I… I’m… with Emilia--she… this ba...ry.” Emilia--a name. Name, name, name, they knew nothing of names, but they knew of their importance. “Lets… stay--” Stay. They certainly didn’t, not with him-- “as long… I help… with… cleaning.” Cleaning. Cleanliness. Sanitary. Tuakana and her obsession with keeping everything spotless. It was the only way she could cope with blood dripping, dripping, dripping-- “And watch--” watches, pocket watches, a total of twelve. Invaluable. The only one that doesn’t look stained is Amisala’s, but that is only because hers is red-- “some…younger kids--” Young. Kid. Another distant connection: Fratineto, Neto, blonde hair, red dress, always red red red red her favorite and not blue never blue and he never understood why. Fratineto, Fratineto, Fratineto-- “on… street--” Streets. Streets. So many streets. They were all nomads, here one moment and gone the next, and now it’s just him travelling around-- “Not that I… do much--I… not really…” A pause, a contemplation. A finish: “You know.” Functional? Helpful? Useful?

Blue’s neurons disagree. His neurons decide to roast themselves by saying, I disagree. I disagree, disagree, disagree all the way. I am not functional. I am not helpful. I am not useful. I am dysfunctional, helpless, helpless, useless, useless, useless.

And I don’t care.

But you? You sound like you’ll die early.

Blue will remember only three words: Emilia, Michael, and Meere. The reason why they register in the worthless cavity behind his eyes is because they sound like names, and he has a thing about names. Anything that sounds name-like is of utmost value.

And then he drifts--completely, this time.

Blue is unsure as to precisely how he came to be on something warm and soft, but he is not one to question infinitesimal things. To challenge the inconsequential involves brainwork he is currently not privy to, nor does he want to be.

Before he leaves the waking realm and enters the abyss of a dreamless sleep, he garbles into the cushion he’s half-smushed his face into, “Taeeviiuonh, you be’er ‘ot fkn leev, kay-kay? Imma ‘e v’ry p’ss’d ‘f I ‘ind m’sel’ al’n’ t’mor’ow…”

== ◊ ==

3/28/21 - Tuesday | 7:40 ⇒ 8:09

Emilia’s Bakery

I hate myself, is his very first thought when he opens his eyes to a beautiful new morning.

And he does. He fucking hates himself. So goddamn much. He hates himself.

“Fuck," is his greeting to the world.

The world is gnarled and distorted, twisting and spinning, colored red and blue and orange and yellow in areas that shouldn’t be red, blue, orange, or yellow. Nothing in this-this… Where the fuck is he again? Place with bread. The hell are they called? Bread Spot? Maybe it’s just Place of Bread? Bread’s Home? Boxing Arena? Breadary?

Bakery! Bakery, bakery, that’s right. Bakery. Fuck.

It’s a bakery, right?

Ugggghh, he can’t think.

No, wait, he should be happy about this.

But he would like his brain to at least somewhat work with him, if only so that he can figure out if last night was some sort of fever dream he mustered up after a shit one-night stand.

...Did he have a one-night stand???

He is in a room, on a couch, and he just woke up from said couch. That’s-- Evidence. Evidence. And-and the hangover. Yes, that. He could’ve. It’s happened before. Several times.

Though the morning after has never been quite so comfortable…

...excluding the fact that everything hates him. His head, his stomach, the skin near his hip where one of his knives dug a little too close--a little too alarmingly--to his skin. His collarbone, where Emmy’s and Neto’s pocket watches marked his flesh. His crus, where Tuakana’s and Twenty-Three’s thought they could be one with his bone. His waist, where M’s and Andy’s and Nathan’s and Ami’s tried to dig their way up into his abused-enough intestines. Above his heart, where he kept Joshua’s watch, and below it, where his holster leg strap is half-out an inside pocket and also had the brilliant idea to engrave his flesh. Everything--all of it, including the universe, despises every fiber of his existence.

Everything, but not everything that would indicate something other than a hangover.

So maybe it wasn’t a one-night stand. Whoever middle-aged dick or bitch or nonbinary hoe he lets drag him back to their residence generally kicks him out ten fuckin’ seconds after they’re done with him. And, well, he’s kinda still on the couch right now, which means he hasn’t been kicked out yet. But then again…, this has happened before. Really, it isn’t the first time he’s been left laying in his own filth, left to wake up and wander in the kitchen to see a sickeningly sweet smile, to hear words like, “You were good, so why don’t you come over again?”

(He swears to God, if that bull happens here, he’s going to say the same thing he’s always said: “Listen, motherfucker, I’m not drunk enough to put up with this shit. Suck your dick yourself.” Of course, he’ll change the second sentence to something that matches the… situation.)

But it’s probably not. He only ever did… that during his first month in San Francisco, when he didn’t have access to alcohol to kill his brain because he was still trying to weasel the most exquisite of tequilas out of every bartender known to man, so he had no choice but to turn to the next best thing.

Well… He did… that during his second month in San Francisco, multiple times, when alcohol started working a little less and he needed some boost to induce better memory loss.

Okay, he might’ve had another in the first week of March, so it’s entirely plausible he had one again.

But in a bakery?

(He knows he’s in a bakery. He can smell the bread. He’s not delusional.

Maybe.)

But he should also consider that he’s done… that in… weirder environments.

But, he also still has his clothes on.

Wait, he still has his clothes on. Why the fuck didn’t he realize this when he was going through his list of Everything That Hates Blue?

He still has his clothes on.

It wasn’t a one-night stand.

Which means…

IT WASN’T A FUCKING FEVER DREAM. FUCK, YEAH! HIS ENTERTAINMENT ACTUALLY EXISTS--

…Maybe???

Someone could’ve just found him passed out in the street and… dragged him indoors. It happened once, during his quick breeze through Texas. Now, that family was really nice, but everyone gets a migraine after dealing with him for so long, so he honestly can’t blame them for sending him off on his way. Oh, and Acton offered to keep him for the night once, that too-kind piece of shit, and Blue’d agreed like the opportunist that he is.

And when Acton returned the next morning to see not only Blue gone but also an eighth of his stock of vodka somehow missing, he never offered again.

But that’s beside the point.

So, someone could’ve just dragged him inside as he dreamed about finally finding someone capable of giving him some fun.

But in a bakery?

He’s been dragged into stranger places, though… It’s happened before. It has. In almost every state he’s been to, at least once.

(Except in New York. Everyone’s either dead inside or close to being dead inside there. No one gives a fuck.)

…At this goddamn rate, everything’s happened to him before.

Fuck it. He shouldn’t be thinking about this so early in the morning, when he’s on the verge of damn death. That, and he can feel M’s asexual self withering somewhere in the back of his pounding head, and Blue is capable of mercy. And Tuakana might take over his thoughts again and find some way to punch him for thinking not-so-PG-13 thoughts.

God, the fact that he even has to consider all this. What has he been doing with his life?

Doing everything I can for happy hormones, comes an answer he doesn’t really like all that much because it sounds a bit too desperate and-- He’s cutting off that train of thought before it gets depressing.

It’s just… Listen, listen, listen. He has to think about this, okay? He has to. Blue is familiar with hallucinations. His boredom could’ve made him hallucinate some pretty as fuck teenager whose soul didn’t really seem attached to him anymore. When you’ve got so much shit in your blood the Grim Reaper starts questioning the meaning of death because it can’t believe you’re incapable of getting alcohol poisoning, you’re going to go through some weird shit. Blue has gone through very fucking weird shit.

The thing is, the fact that he’s in a bakery right now should prove that it was all real. The fact that his hand is all fucked up should prove it, too. But, he’s had little daydreams before in the past and he ended up both going to the same places and injuring himself the exact same way as what happened in his mind. So he has to ask himself. He has to know--

...Fuck. He realizes, belatedly, that the only way for him to really know involves him getting up, which means he should probably tear his hand away from where it’s pushing his eyeball impossibly further into his skull.

Yeah, he should get up now.

Mm.

He’ll get up. No, he will. Just… give him a minute.

Or five.

Ten.

An hour. What time is it, anyway? He’ll assume it’s fuck o’clock. Well, not-fuck o’clock exists. He could just wait until then.

...He’ll get up now.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

8:10

Well, that was a mistake.

Eh, what else is new?

He groans pathetically as his stomach twists and tries to eject more nothingness into the toilet. The moment he’d sat up, everything decided to hate him more, and he had only half a minute to guess where the bathroom was before his body decided to do some good ole cleansing.

It’s a good thing he’s good at guessing. If he wasn’t… Phew. He’s done enough thinking for the day, really, so no need to try imagining that.

It’s also good that Emmy’s and Neto’s watches hanging from his neck didn’t fall into the toilet. Blue wouldn’t have forgiven himself if he got sick over one of the only things he has left of them.

What isn’t good is that the consequences of his actions have now arrived, and he’s now been reduced to a hunched-over little ball of agony.

He’s probably going to be like this for the rest of the week.

Blue can’t help but whimper at that, just a bit.

He’s… going to stay here for the next hour or two. Hah. He’ll figure out if his entertainment actually exists and wasn’t a product of his bored-as-fuck mind later…

_______________________

2404 Words

(Fuck editing and fuck organization.)

Taevion didn’t sleep that night. He had already assumed he wouldn’t be getting much sleep anyway, even before he had met Blue. But after everything that had happened the night before, he was too keyed up.

He hated feeling that way- restless and bored, yet unable to do anything about it. His mind and body were in a deadlock, wanting two, very different things. His mind desperately wanted him to move, to leave this place, find a corner in some alley that nobody would be able to find him in, and curl up, letting himself finally show the emotion that he shoved downwards. Yet, his body was shaky, over-alert. As soon as he got situated on the other couch, he couldn’t move, not even to fetch himself a blanket. It was a combination of things, he was sure. It was like as soon as the immediate danger was gone, and the adrenaline stopped pumping through his bloodstream, he was left a shaky, nauseous, and dizzy shell.

He had forced himself to get a blanket for Blue, lightly tossing it over his sleeping form, somehow unable to get closer to him than strictly necessary. After that, he stood by the counter, staring at the mess he had to clean up, his body quivering ever so slightly, his eyes wide and far away. It had been a long time since he had felt this shaken up. He didn’t like it.

Those words that Blue had said to him at the very end, the ones that were filled with a strange emotion Taevion could not understand. Blue was erratic, thoughtless, open. Manipulative. Maybe this was all just part of that. Maybe it wasn’t.

Taevion hated that he couldn’t read the other deviant. All of his life, he had been attuning himself to the way others interacted, learning how to read their body language, to look for deception in their eyes. And, he knew Blue was lying. But Blue wasn’t trying to hide it, unlike others. His lies were open, bold, begging to be seen through, while at the same time, subtle. Perhaps he used obvious lies to hide the real deceit. Taevion hoped not- he wasn't sure he could handle that. Besides, it wasn’t the lying Taevion disliked about the other. Well, that wasn’t completely true, he certainly didn’t like being lied to. Yet, in a way, the lying was the most upfront part about Blue.

Taevion didn’t like that. Didn’t like how he felt around the other deviant- constantly on edge, jittery, ready to withdraw at any moment, while at the same time, leaning forward, hands playing with the hem of his sweater, picking at the seams before he noticed, gaze locked on all of Blue's mannerisms with a strange obsession. Taevion had always been magnetic; people told him that all the time. They liked to pull him into their bubbles and promise safety. They liked the comfort that he could provide them. They never even realized that the person they thought to be him was just another mask. And it was good that way. Better. He could have some friends. He could even have some close friends. But never anything more. It was too risky.

So why was this stupid, blue delinquent stuck on his mind?

Those words, so terribly slurred, yet somehow clear in his mind. Taunting him. Warming him. He hated it. Hated how, even if his mind warned his body to stay away, he would still find himself leaning forward, would still feel himself reaching out, subconsciously, to help and even to hold.

He didn’t dare, though. He'd been burned enough times to know it was never safe. And Blue was probably one of the least safe things he had ever met. He couldn't be trusted, right up there with Corrvis. So, why did some part of him want it? Why was it able to acknowledge the deceit and yet still fall, head-first into murky waters? Blue, blue, blue. This wasn't safe. It wasn't good. He needed to stop.

---

It was so goddamn hard.

---

Eventually, he ended up laying on the other couch, the one across from Blues’ sleeping form, watching as he dozed fitfully. Some part of him wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t, even if he tried. His mind was sluggish, but his body was awake, bright as a live wire. He stared, with almost-sleeping eyes, his arms crossing over his chest, hugging himself for some semblance of self-comfort.

That was another problem. His mind was turning over the touch, how feather-light and soft it had been, like a tendril of cloud caressing his face. It didn’t make sense how it could be so restrained, so… docile. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like that his body already trusted it, already craved it. Then again, there was a possibility it was all just a game to the other deviant. Taevion didn’t know him, didn’t know what drove him.

Blue was shaping up to be a terrible, terrible addiction. Taevion hated drugs.

“Taevion, you’d better not fuckin’ leave, ‘kay?”

Taevion forced his mind to wander.

|-| 03.28.21 |-| Tuesday |-| 6:30 AM |-|
Emilia’s Bakery

He did not sleep, but he dreamed all the same. Memories playing over his mind in an unending reminder of the past. Some were good, some were bad. None of them really hurt, though. He stayed away from those.

When he came back to himself, the sky was just beginning to lighten on the edges. Blue’s form was still, besides the random twitches that would play through his fingers where they lay, clutched around the couch. Bad dreams. Taevion sat up, infinitely weary, and watched for a moment, to check and see that the slow rise and fall of his chest stayed steady. Then, carefully, he stood and padded into the room he had meant to stay in the night before. It was small and neat, the armoire standing tall, its door left slightly ajar. He closed it, quietly, then turned back to the couch.

There was a bag next to it of extra clothes he carried sometimes. He quickly changed into a simple black button-up, tucking it into a pair of dark jeans. He tossed his long, cream-brown overcoat, not bothering to tie it up, and pulled on his socks and ratty old hiking boots. Finally, he got around to carefully taking off his black knit gloves.

His right hand was fine, but as he peeled away the glove on his left, he winced at the sight. It seemed he had absorbed more damage than he meant to. Thick wounds sat on its back, a pale golden color. Golden was smeared around on his hand as well. Others might see it as a sign of infection, but when the light glowed on the dried blood, glitters of golden stood out.

He was glad it hadn’t soaked through. Explaining why he had golden blood to the other deviant currently knocked out on a couch didn’t seem very appealing to him.

With a sigh, he quickly fetched the first-aid kit. There was no alcohol left, courtesy of Blue, but he wrapped it regardless. He followed with his thick, brown leather gloves, feeling immediately more comfortable when his hands were covered.

Taevion then made his way to the bathroom. As expected, he looked terrible, with dark shadows sunken into his skin, dull eyes, and hair that was roughed up against his scalp from his restless, sleepless night. Not to mention the handprint of caked and dried blood gracing his cheek. Sighing, Taevion took off his gloves, washed his face, and took a brush to his hair, pulling it into something a bit more manageable.

When he was finished freshening up, he made his way back out of the bathroom, feeling incrementally better. Blue was still passed out on the couch, so Taevion slowed, thinking. Blue had drunk a lot last night, and unless he was some immortal being, he would probably be waking up incredibly hungover. Taevion frowned in sympathy; that had always been the worst part for him. Being forced to come back to reality with a splitting headache and urge to vomit out all of his organs, one by one.

Emilia wouldn’t be here until later- she didn’t open up until 7:00 at the very most, but she usually wouldn't even come until ten or later in situations like these. In fact, he should probably call her and explain to her the situation, just in case Michael hadn’t already. He hurried back to the landline and dialed her number.

She answered three rings in, her voice somewhat upbeat even though Taevion knew she could have only just woken up.

“Is everything all right?” she asked. “Michael called me, said something about a ‘situation.’ I assume that means I’m opening shop later, but- well. I was worried.”

Taevion shrugs before remembering she couldn’t see him, and answered instead, “Just another deviant stopping by. Michael will probably be around at ten sometime to pick us up.”

“All right,” Emilia said, but her voice still held an undercurrent of concern. “Well, if you’re sure- you don’t need anything else, do you? Slept well and all that?”

Taevion didn’t bother responding to the latter question, and instead deflected, asking, “Do you have any aspirin or anything around the bakery? Hangover cure, maybe?”

“I- You haven't been- tell me you didn't-"

“No,” Taevion promised.

Emilia was silent for a moment, contemplating this. She knew that Taevion wasn't one to lie, not about this, but he could tell she was worried. She had been one of the few people he told about everything, one of the people he let see him while he was weak and tired and vulnerable. She knew he wouldn't lie about this. So, instead, she accepted it, sighing again before speaking.

---

“All right. My bakery better not be shit,” she threatened, and Taevion winced, remembering the mess he had to clean up.

“Of course,” he said, inviting the conversation to come to an end, but she continued.

“I don’t have aspirin or anything, but you can probably borrow some money from the stash and run over and get some. Hangover cure… I don’t know. Drink water, lots of water. Eat some carbs. Maybe make some coffee. I don’t get hungover very often anymore, sorry.” Her words were directed at him, though he was sure she knew that he would not be the one benefitting. "I'm surprised you don't remember."

---

Taevion paused at the words, taken aback. Emilia was usually so careful with her words. She must be more worried than he had thought.

Before she had the chance to rush in and try to take the words back, Taevion spoke. “That’s alright,” he murmured.

“...Okay,” Emilia said, tone decidedly awkward. “Stay safe, alright kid?”

“Yeah.”

She hung up then, although Taevion could almost feel her hesitance. She was worried, but she trusted him. Taevion could appreciate that, at least.

Taevions’ next step was to clean up the mess Blue had made the night before. He was immensely glad for the tile floors and even managed to scrounge up some more alcohol to get up the more difficult stains. In the end, it didn’t take long to clean the floor and towel off the counter. In a way, having something to do was grounding. His nerves were shot, and he felt strange, but the way his hands moved over the tiles was familiar, steadying. He deposited the plate from last night into one of the bakeries’ sinks and pried up the bit of wall behind the armoire to get to the extra stash of money. There wasn’t much left, only forty dollars or so, so he ended up taking it all. Emilia would know to refill it when she came in.

Taevion checked the alarm clock. It read 6:49. He had enough time. Quickly, he hurried to the small coat closet and selected a cream, knit scarf that felt heavenly against his skin. He hurried out, shooting one last glance at his sleeping companion, and praying to a God he had never had the grace to believe in that the deviant wouldn’t wreak any more havoc on Emilia’s bakery.

Then, with a long sigh, he trudged out into the early morning, locking the bakery doors behind him.

----

|-| 2086 words |-|

03.28.21 |-| Tuesday |-| 7:35 AM - 8:30
San Francisco -- Den’s Grocer

The walk wasn’t that bad, actually. There weren’t a lot of people out quite yet, leaving him to his own thoughts. He trudged along carefully avoiding the few, sleep-blurry people that did come his way, intent on making it to work or school. They were too tired to really take in his appearance, which he was grateful for. He was used to getting looks, probably from people noticing his heavy attire, but that didn’t mean he liked it.

The place he was going to wasn’t too far away, but it still required a bit of a walk to get there. Den’s Grocer, a small shop with a pharmacy and basic supplies. He had been there before, fetching supplies for other deviants that came his way. He needed to stock up on first aid supplies anyhow.

The shop was little, on the bottom of a large apartment building, its windows protected by large, green umbrella-like material that stretched out over them in little, curved roofs of sorts. The bell jingled merrily as he entered, slightly softer than Emilia’s, and the store stretched out in front of him. It was the size of a small gas station stop, with dim lights and rows of shelves. The register was in the front. Den, the owner, leaned tiredly over the checking counter, yawning. His eyes met Taevions’ for a moment before glancing away. Taevion wondered if he knew that this place was usually where deviants came to buy supplies. He wondered if he cared.

Taevion made himself busy, quickly heading to the shelf with the medicine on it, and picking out some aspirin. He could make some coffee and whatever carb-heavy pastry needed back at the bakery, so he simply grabbed some more first-aid kit supplies and a single, red apple before heading back and buying it.

Den was somewhat more awake now and taking him in with some interest. “Taevion?” he asked, and Taevion felt his body bristle instinctively. He quickly pushed his reaction down, not wanting to seem on guard. He had never told Den his name before. This couldn't be good.

“Yeah,” he said vaguely. Den nodded, once, twice, taking this in. Then, as he rang up the last of the groceries, he spoke again.

“You’re friends with that Margot kid, right?” Taevion didn’t respond, wary of where this was going. “She told me that if I happened to see you again to tell you that she’s been missing you. Wants to get together sometime again or something.” Den finished his words off with a shrug, nonchalant. Taevion peered at him, looking for signs of deception and finding none. If anything, this man was just as surprised about this message- or, rather, having to relay it- than Taevion was for being the recipient.

Still, Taevion blinked in surprise. Margot Tenner was another deviant, one of the pushier revolutionaries in the Underground. She was constantly out, helping new deviants and other members of the Underground by passing information on through them. She was a powerful deviant, with the ability to shapeshift into birds. Taevion had once asked if she could shapeshift into anything else and she had simply shrugged.

“I don’t think so,” she had explained. “It’s really specific. Just birds. Even flightless ones. As long as it’s a bird, it works.” He hadn't questioned her further- if she wanted to share more about it, then she would. Margot wasn't quiet like he was.

He and Margot had known each other since Michael had moved to his new apartment across the city, back when Taevion was twelve, right after everything had happened. He had still been shell-shocked over everything, feeling lonely and scared, unsure where to go from there. Margot had been one of the first to reach out to him, trying to help and pull him out of his shell. She had taught him a lot of what he knew about Corrvis, always ready to share information even when it would probably have been better to stay quiet about it. Still, he had been unsure and untrusting. Back then, he hadn't been in a very good place. He still wasn't, if he was being honest with himself. It seemed Margot had taken it upon herself to draw him out of himself.

It had worked, somewhat. Margot’s strength lay in her loyalty and devotion, two things that Taevion was very grateful to her for. There were problems, of course- Margot was the type of person who was always trying to pull others out of their shells, which could be helpful for some, but after a certain point, it became bothersome. Yet, in the end, Taevion was glad for her. She might be a bit pushy, but in the end, she had always been there for him.

It occurred to him that he really hadn’t seen her in a while. Margot was one of the heads of the Underground, after all, and liked to keep busy. Taevion wasn’t quite jealous of her- he was fine helping out in smaller ways. Still, it irked him how she (and other deviants) were trusted to help lead the Underground while he was left at home, hidden away as if he was some fragile, breakable thing.

But he was glad Margot was looking for him. He had missed her, too.

He nodded in thanks to Den and made his way out of the shop, bags swinging in the soft breeze as he walked. It was lighter now, and more people prowled the streets, but he ignored them as best he could. Once things settled down a bit, he’d take some time to spend with Margot. If she didn’t find him first, anyhow.

The walk back was, once again, surprisingly nice. It wasn’t raining, and the only clouds that adorned the sky were light and fluffy. He padded along, letting himself relax a bit. San Francisco was… hurried, to say the least, but there were plenty of places to hide if needs be. Even in the most hurried of city streets, one could find solace in the sky.

Taevion let out a sigh of relief. He was weary, sure, and the shadows under his eyes were only darker, but something about the morning spoke of newness. Hope. He didn’t really know what to do, what to think about, a lot of the time. It was hard, sometimes, when everything got to be so much. It was easier to pretend it wasn’t.

People bustled around him. Taevion hummed softly. A few of them looked at him, and then looked away just as quick. Others didn’t bother with niceties and looked longer. Taevion would have been uncomfortable if he wasn’t used to it. People stared. That was okay. He was dressed strangely, after all.

Taevion came upon the bakery when the big clock above the counter said it was eight-fifteen in the morning. He unlocked the door and let himself in, shutting it carefully behind him. The bell jingled and he glanced nervously over at the couch where he was sure Blue would be waiting. Instead, he was faced with the sight of the blanket thrown up and away, as if Blue had been going somewhere in a hurry.

Taevions’ heart almost stopped. Shit. He should’ve known that Blue wouldn’t stick around. Worry crawled up his spine, but there was a level of relief there. Disappointment, too. He didn’t know why he felt that way. If he knew anything from meeting the other deviant, it was that sometimes it was better to leave things- people- be. But still, deep in his stomach, there was something low and unhappy. Taevion decided that this was worrying.

He was unsure what to do for a moment, before he heard a low groan emanating from the bathroom, followed by the sound of someone puking their guts out. Taevion winced in sympathy. Ah. It seemed Blue was here after all. He should’ve guessed. Hangovers were never kind.

He decided to leave Blue to do his business for a moment and instead headed to the kitchen. There, using some of the knowledge Emilia had taught him, he worked on cooking up some breakfast. There wasn’t a lot of food that wasn’t made for pastries and the like, but Emilia did keep some other food on her, just in case. Taevion was gratified to find some bacon and hoped that Blue wasn’t a vegetarian or vegan. He set it into a pan, turned it on high, and cracked a few eggs in another. He then got to work setting up the coffee maker and getting some more bread. Carbs, Emilia had said. Thank god this was a bakery.

He also found some more of those pastries that Blue had liked. Bienenstiech. It was an unfamiliar word, so he tried it out in his mouth, trying to make the syllables sound the same as Blue had. He couldn’t quite get it, but the word was surprisingly heavy on his tongue so he didn’t mind too much. He set to heating a few pieces of it up and then fetched a glass of water and two pills.

He went over and set them on the counter in front. The bakery was beginning to smell like a bakery should in the morning, the aroma of bread and coffee and frosting. He smiled a bit at that; it felt like home should.

He didn’t let himself dwell, instead, he headed back into the kitchen to season the eggs with salt and pepper, and turn the bacon over a bit. The eggs were quickly scrambled, and the bacon sizzled merrily. He also set to make some rolls.

The eggs were pulled out first, followed by the bacon, extra crispy, just as Taevion liked it. He couldn’t stand the stuff when it was soft. He hoped Blue had the same opinion. He shoveled it on a plate, followed by some rolls that he slathered in butter, their outsides looking warm and golden. Taevion felt some pride in that. He had always liked cooking and baking, though not for himself. He wasn’t very hungry that day anyhow, something about the night before turned his stomach and made him averse to the consumption of food. He’d make himself some tea instead, he decided.

The coffee machine dinged merrily, so he went and fetched some into a mug. He wasn’t sure how Blue liked his coffee- if he even liked coffee at all- so he left it to cool for a bit, setting some more water to boil for tea. Then, leaving the plate with its bacon and eggs on it, still waiting for the rolls to be done and the beinenstich to warm, he made his way to the front, grabbed the water and aspirin, and made his way to the bathroom. The bag of medical supplies and his apple would have to wait.

It was a simple bathroom, with one for men, one for women, and one unisex. The one for women and the one for unisex were undisturbed, their doors left closed, but the mens’ was very obviously occupied. The door was left open somewhat, leaving soft light to spill out. The light turned on due to movement, or Taevion was sure it would have stayed dark. When you need to throw up, there usually isn’t much else on your mind.

And sure enough, as Taevion toed open the door, he was faced with the sight of Blue, looking absolutely wrecked, hair thrown back away from his face, his elbows braced on the sides of the seat and his head hung. He hadn’t even had time to put the seat up. Taevion sighed softly, placing the water and aspirin on the counter and kneeling carefully next to the other deviant. He looked down for a moment, thinking of what to say, before speaking, keeping his voice low. Blue was probably particularly sensitive to light and sound right now. With that in mind, he opened the door more and turned off the light, so the room was left in partial darkness.

“Hey,” he murmured. “It’s alright. Here- whenever you’re ready, I have some water and aspirin, if you think you can keep it down.” He waited for a moment, to see if Blue was going to start throwing up again and cut off his train of thought. When the other stayed silent, shoulders steady, he continued. “I’m making you some food, too, if you think you can keep that down. We should talk, but you should probably eat something first.”

His body was already tense, seeing the other in front of him, but he didn’t dare shy away, nor go to hide in his own mind. Blue had been drunk last night, perhaps he was different when he was sober. Besides, Taevion couldn’t hide away when others were in need of his help. So, even those he was entirely on edge, he forced himself to remain calm. He was fine. He would be fine.

|-| 2259 words |-|

(PS- Lowkey thinking about how homoerotic and symbolic it would be if Blue takes the apple and eats some of it [boy how you could MILK this scene] and then when he fucks off to go and freshen up in the bathroom or something, Taevion could eat the apple. Like… the symbolism?? I’m a fucking whore for symbolism, it’s literally everywhere in my writing, and eating the apple… falling to temptation… it could become a whole theme or some shit idk.)

《 ♧ 》

Emilia’s Bakery, Bathroom

Pain. His world is one full of pain and gripe and misery. Somewhere in the back of his mind is Tuakana going off on another long-suffering tirade of how badly he treats the reason for his continued existence. Further back is Twenty-Three, and though Blue will never be able to see him again, he knows, without a doubt, that the man’s face is set in disappointment, that his voice, baritone and drowning in dissatisfied frustration, is listing down one-by-one (in perfect unwillingness to give a damn about how it will affect the one he’s emotionally destroying) an endless set of failures, even those from years ago because his photographic memory is a bitch. Behind him stands the rest of them (sans the more-or-less congenial Emmy and Fratineto. The rarity of their voices is both a gift and a curse, and, for now, Blue considers it glorious that they don’t exist at the moment; the shame would be unbearable) shaking their heads as they mouth words suspiciously akin to, And he’s done it again. And further still is Andy, that bastard of a piece of shit, howling his mirth to the nonexistent sky. Even through the agony of a twisting stomach, the pounding throughout his skull, the ringing in his ears and the spinning of the world and the pain of it all, he can hear every single one of them loud and clear.

“Fuck you all,” he mutters into the filthy basin. Or, more like, whimpers, because, well, he’s in a lot of pain right now, okay?

The idea of digging a hole through the linoleum tiles and dying in it is sounding more rational every second that goes by where Blue is left hunching over a toilet. Everything is too much, too bright for his useless eye but not bright enough for him to get any answers, too disrespectfully loud to his ears but too quiet to keep his thoughts in control. The small vent humming somewhere above him needs to learn to shut up; the floor needs to disobey the laws of heat physics and figure out how to not freeze his knees to death; the aurum overhead light really should stop existing because it glows a little too vividly, a little too orange a little too much like fire and isn’t that a̶n̸ ̸i̸n̴t̸e̷resting comp̴̑͜ạ̷̛r̸͍͑i̸̠̎ṣ̸̽ő̸̻n, Blue--

...Hmm. How about... no.

He takes the oh-so-wonderful train of thought and derails it, promptly deciding that he hates hangovers as much as he hates himself. Screw pain for fucking up his thoughts. Screw hangovers for reminding him of other previous hangovers and what was happening during said previous hangovers, what was happening while he was out a̶n̷d̷ ̴a̴b̵ou̵t̸ ̷h̴av̴in̵g̷ ̵t̵hè̶̥͎ ̶̢̣̔́ẗ̸̤́̓i̴͙̐̽me̷̬͚̚ ̷̠̺́̂o̸f ̴̥̣͐h̵̦͕͊͛is̴͇͋ ̶͖̦̀͑l̶̤̈́i̷̞͔̚f̶̰̂ë̷̡́̚ ̶͉̠̂̈́ẅ̷͓̃ĥ̵̜i̵͕͑l̶͚̏̊e̸͓̽ ̸͖͊̚t̶̰̮͐h̸̥̐̍e̴͎̿y̶̲͑̕--

Fucking dammit, brain! Hush!

In an attempt to beat them nasty memories out of the thought factory in his incredibly malicious mind, he slams his forehead against the edge of the toilet seat, which... turns out to be yet another mistake because goddamn hell that is a big ouchie.

Blue really isn’t all that adept at properly handling his hangovers.

His stomach wrenches, coils, and to say that it hates being a part of this… this cantankerous, bullheaded boy would be an understatement. He chooses to listen, chooses to obey, because it’s not like he can win an argument with one of his vital organs. He pulls himself up from where he’s gradually begun to slide to the frigid tiles, wraps his fingers around the sides of the seat in a white-knuckled grip, and lets himself get wrecked once more.

There’s barely anything left to throw up, but his body is nonetheless adamant about its goal to eject all his insides down into the gutters.

Verdammt noch mal, is a phrase he is acquainted with via a silver memory from a childhood he’ll always want to forget. Damn it all, it means.

Damn it all because he knows despite all his promises to himself that he won’t go through this agony again, despite all his promises to the fretting Tuakana and disappointed Twenty-Three and perturbed Joshua that live in his head; his promises to Emmy and Fratineto in the far corner he locks them in, the corner smothered in shadows because his chest hurts every time he bothers to acknowledge their existence, his promises that, no, they’re never going to see him like this ever again, he promises, he promises, he promises; his promises to M, to Andy, to Nathan, to those blasted twins, to everyone that he’ll stop drinking because he, contrary to popular belief, knows it’s bad, that he, yes, yes, knows it’ll destroy his liver, his spleen, his nonexistent neurons, his crystal heart that he hates so fucking much--

Damn it all because he knows he’ll just break his promises again. Damn it all because he knows he’ll drink again tomorrow.

He can’t help it, really. It’s just so much fun. He wants to have fun. It’s the only thing left in the world that he wants, no matter how many times it might destroy him.

It hides. It conceals. It helps in a way that isn’t all that great, but he functions now because of it, doesn’t he?

His shoulders rise and fall dramatically in a deep sigh. He heaves himself up higher, mostly because he really doesn’t want his face to fall in his own vomit, wipes his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, and throws his hair back, setting his bony elbows on either side of the seat to keep himself from sliding back down. A quick shake of his head scatters all the mean bits in his mind elsewhere.

He really does think too much when he isn’t poisoning himself with some preeminent substance. He’s going to have to make a quick trip to Acton’s, to get himself to stop again.

But do the living ever really stop thinking?

Wouldn’t it be better if he just--

The door creaks open.

Darkness.

Blue’s heart abruptly concludes that it really doesn’t like being inside his chest anymore.

Footsteps. Slow, quiet. Approaching. There is a shadow, angled towards him, over him, cast by the natural light streaming in from outside. A shadow, shaped like a personpersonperson, standing over him, keeping the light away from him, but whoever it is doesn’t matter because it is standing over him over him over him over him like it’s more than him like he’s less and it’s above above above and Blue doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like that, doesn’t like this, doesn’t like any of this and he doesn’t knowknowknowknow he can’t see who is this whowho he can’t see they’re on his left side on his left on his left and he should rip the bandage off he doesn’t need it anyway doesn’t he buthe’llseethem andandandand Blue thinks, thinks, thinks, doesn’t want to think, but he thinks, over and over, I have Sally, I have Sally, I have Sally.

Be logical. Be logical, be logical, be logical, what are you feeling, Blue?

Fear, fear, fear. Blue takes that word, takes those four letters, makes it longer, molds it. Irrational, irrational, irrational. Again: irrational, irrational, irrational. If he keeps saying it’s irrational, it will be irrational. It’s irrational. Doesn’t that sound like “irrelevant”, Blue? Irrelevant, irrational; it’s all the same thing. Over and over. Irrelevant, irrational, irrelevant, irrational, irr--

Stop.

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. Think about last night, Blue, think about last night. Just think. Just this once. Just this twice, again and again and again even though you don’t want to. No, no, nonononono just think about it: if this was danger, wouldn’t you be dead by now? Why are you so scared, Blue? There’s nothing to be a coward over; this is nothing. Just a door creaking open, just someone coming in why are you so scared there’s nothing to be frightened about there’s nothing there what the hell is wrong with--

Stop.

Think.

You’re fine.

Yes.

You’re safe.

Okay.

You can make yourself safe.

Okay.

You’re safe, Blue.

Okay.

There’s no need to be afraid.

Okay.

Really, why are you so scared when you don’t have to be?

O-Okay.

You haven’t answered me now, have you?

I--

Why so scared, D̶e̴c̶e̷m̵b̷e̶r̸ Blue? There’s nothing there. Nothing you can’t bring down like the countless others.

What?

Really? Frightened? Oh, no, D̶e̴c̶e̷m̵b̷e̶r̸.

No, no, no, no.

Don’t be afraid, D̶̮̩̟̩͌̇̓e̴̞͙͎̝͆͆̅̈c̵̛̗̰̿è̸͜͝ḿ̷̰̞̃͘b̵͚̱̎̆̾͗͜è̶͍͈̬̉r̷͙͂̎̚.

The fuck the hell the living shit don’t call me--

Monsters like you shouldn’t be afraid, D̶̟̖̅̀ë̸̖̹́̈́c̵̡̦͝e̴̡͖͛͆m̶̳̟̩͆͂b̷̡͍̯̋e̶̫̜̟͂r̷̲̈́̏̄.

No, no, no, no--

Y̵͍͌o̷̤̕͝ứ̸͈̠͝ ̸͘p̴̣̽̿ȍ̷̯̮̑o̵͎̓̔ṙ̶̞͝ ̴͖͍̠̂́t̷͔̋̽͜͠ḧ̶́i̸͙͑̓ṉ̷͖̠̏͛ǵ̵͍̄.̸̜̿̆ ̴̼̗̪̍̌̽ ̴̨̬̈́T̶̤̜͛̕h̷̭̳̐ĭ̴̱̻̓́ṇ̷̿̒̋k̷̅ͅi̷̛̹͖ͅn̴͓͒̆ǵ̴̜͇͐͠ ̷̹͓͐́͝y̸̭̰̍̇o̴̲̅͑̌ṷ̴͘ ̷̗͍́͝s̷̜̱̍͊h̵o̵̼̥̐̇̇u̷̥̜͉͒͆̌l̵̞̒̀d̸͖͗ ̸͍̜̏̓̂f̷̠̓̾e̶̞͂͌̄a̶͑͗ȑ̴̰͇̝̿̊ ̶̻̗̀͝ẃ̶̧̟̦͝h̸̛̥̱͌̌e̷̯͌n̶̨̞̋̿͘͜ ̴͓͒ṱ̷̹͍̊͂̒ḣ̷̽ë̶̲̹́͜y̸̙̎͝ ̴̘̌̑̆s̷̢͔̟̽͒h̷̙̋́̌ō̴̟u̶̠͋̍l̴̩̆d̷̝̬̓͜ ̴͊͜͝f̴̢͈͋e̷̬͒a̸̛̽ŗ̴͂́ͅ ̷̫̖̍͜ý̷͔̈́ö̵̠̠́͂ù̷̯̱̟͠ ̵̢̠̩̍͐͆i̷̝͋͝n̷̈́s̷͖̤̾̽t̶͙͒̔͋ě̴̝̝̚d̵̺̱̽͝.̶̱͎͎͒͐͑

No.

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what is this why is he spiralling the hell the fuck there’s nothing nothing to cause this what the fuck what is going on.

He hates hangovers. He hates them. He hates them so much. This is why he gets drunk again right after. This is fucking why. Hangovers hurt. They hurt and they hurt and they make him dizzy disoriented out of place nauseated confused and confused and so confused and nothing is his anymore and everything is so fucking confusing everythingeverythingeverything it makes him remember and he hates that, hates remembering because remembering makes him vulnerable and vulnerability brought him nothing more but more moremoremoremore he doesn’twanttofuckingthinkabout it and he hates how pain brings back every suppressed thought, hates hates hates hates how his own mind can’t be controlled and how the only thing that is his actually isn’t and hateshateshates--

“Hey.”

Noise.

He latches on. Noise gets rid of them, gets rid of them all, makes everything make more sense, makes everything controllable, makesmakesmakes no no no where is it where is where the noise where did it go--

“It’s alright.” Yesyesyesyes. Noise, noise, noise, noise, keep talking, keep talking, talk, talk. “Here--whenever you’re ready, I have some water--” keep talking, keep talking, keep talking-- “and aspirin, if you think you can keep it down.”

He doesn’t understand what he’s being told, but he can hear. Hear that voice. Like a blanket. Warm, warm, warm, warm.

“I’m making you some food, too--” okay okay okay okay-- “if you think you can keep that down. We should talk--” talk, talk, talk noise okay of course yesyes-- “but you should probably eat something first.”

He thinks: I need a second.

-- Blue, cont. --

One-by-one, piece-by-piece, step-by-step--an algorithm he will never master, but somewhere close to it.

Get yourself back together, Bluey.

Step

by

step.

He starts with a reassurance: no one saw. He knows, he knows, that no one outside of his mind can tell when his mask slips. Because Blue is like that, even when he can’t breathe. He has a fuckin’ PhD-- has fucking three PhDs in Lying and Pretending. He’s good at this. No one is able to know. Not even his siblings. He’d be fucking standing in front of M, the most perceptive of them all, his mind a mess, completely breaking down, but he’d be smiling, he’d be laughing, he’d be a little shit and be pissing off everybody, and no one would know, would be able to see, just as he’d wanted. Because he’d be this and that and everything was automatic and everyone was okay with how he wasn’t even in his body, he wasn’t-wasn’t in con...control and it was fucking terrifying and no one knew a single damn thing because he is so. Good. At. Pretending.

No outward signs. There has to be none. He has to be composed. All the time. It’s been drilled into him. He’s been tr̷ai̶n̷e̷d̷. It’s instinctive, now, to be away from everything that you are, but still being fully capable of being you. Somewhat. There, but not there.

Dissociating, Andy called it.

Blue called it: a̶ w̵a̶y ̵to̸ m̶a̸k̶e̵ su̵r̷e̵ ̶t̸h̶e̶ on̶e̸s̶ ̷y̶ou̴'r̵e̵ ̵m̶u̶r̸d̶er̵in̴g̷ ̶do̵n̴'̷t ̷k̶n̴ow̶ ̸yo̸u̶'̴r̸e̶ ̴t̷e̶rr̵i̸f̵i̵e̷d̶.

...Blue thinks: I need another second.

Two seconds, three seconds. He slithers his way to every corner of his body, assessing, taking control, one-by-one. Where are his legs? On the ground, numb from minutes of kneeling. His knees are cold. Move them, move them.

They cooperate.

Where is his left arm? Bent at the elbow, resting on the toilet seat, all five fingers casually holding his hair up. Move it, move it.

It cooperates.

Where is his right arm? Limp against the toilet seat, all five, gloved fingers having cracked the polystyrene.

Shit.

That’ll… be hard to hide.

It doesn’t matter. Irrelevant.

He commands his right arm to move.

It disobeys.

Move.

It disobeys,

Move, move, move.

No signs of response.

Fuckfuckfuck.

Fuckingmovegoddamnityoulittleshitimliterallyyoucooperate--

His fingers break free.

Ah, thank the god out there that somehow thought it was a wonderful idea to make him.

…His fingers hurt like hell, though. He hopes he didn’t break any of them.

He flexes them, curls them into a tight fist, buries them as close he can to the flesh of his thigh. Irrelevant.

Now, now, now, another question: how long did his little jittery thingy (Panic attack, Andy corrects, but Andy can go fuck himself and his internet access) last?

He thinks, he recalls, he decides.

Barely even a minute. Okay. Okay.

Blue wasn’t called the second-fastest in his family for no reason.

His hands are shaking.

For a moment, he wishes the shadow or whatever the hell that black tarp was was over him. That way, his trembling frame would be hidden from sight.

But it’s just the hangover, he tells himself. It’s just the hangover. You can shake when you’re hungover.

He sighs. The fuck is happening to him, anyway? Really, what brought that on? He only has that thing when something… major has happened. Or when it’s too quiet. Or when he’s alone. Or when he’s not drunkenly passed out in the middle of the street. Okay, he might haveth that at literally any moment, but--

Screw it. He’s not questioning it. What matters is that he’s thinking too much again, that he’s tired, he’s in pain, he’s exhausted, and he really wants to drink some vodka because that type of liquor Joshua’s utterly fond of doesn't reward him with this severe of a hangover most of the time.

And, whelp, the first step to getting drunk is to get up and leave.

He drops his hand to the ground from where he’s been rubbing his thumb and pointer finger against the flesh between his eyebrows (he hadn’t even realized he’d been doing that. It was something Twenty-Three normally did when he had headaches), sighs again like he’s the forever solemn Finn, turns his head--

There is a boy (beautiful as fuck, but that’s none of your business) crouching directly beside him, gold eyes boring into his very existence. Chestnut locks, tan skin, what the hell are those clothes, kinda skinny as hell--Taevion, comes the memory of the other’s name, as does… some other memories, mostly pertaining to the events of last night. Obviously; what other memories are there for him to remember, beside the ones he’s actively suppressing in favor of drinking himself to death?

And-- huh. Really, all he can remember is the guy not doing shit when Blue was pretty much pressed against him… And. Hmm. Well, now that he-- Now that he thinks about it, that… That-- That… Was really damn enjoyable. Very. To see him still so composed, so… so unmoving, like he was dead, unresponsive, but his eyes were aglow with something he really should have been showing, and Blue was-- Was. Oh, when he breaks… When he breaks.

Blue is… Blue is exultant. A part of him still really thought all that was just a dream. To see his entertainment actually exists, to know that he has someone to be around for, to know that he won’t be bored, that he’ll be here to deepen wounds, to make wounds, to crack, to fracture, to shatter, to destroy someone that isn’t him--

Blue wants to frolic into the sunset.

But all he can say is--

“HIMMELDONNERWETTER!”

--as he pretty much falls flat to the floor in his rush to throw himself at the wall farthest from the other boy.

This. Is. The. Second. Fucking. Time.

Second.

Within twenty-four goddamn hours.

“You piece of hell! Fuckin’ shit dancing on ass cheeks! What the living fuck?! You bitch-ass spawn of Satan. You-- You.”

Fuck him. Fuck him. Badly.

Wait, what.

What.

What.

His eyebrows nearly fly off his hairline (or… one eyebrow, from his entertainment’s perspective) and then settle back down, burrowing studiously, as his face darkens from being alight with startled confusion and the remnants of surprise to… something, because now that he thinks about it--

Nope! Nuh-uh. Nein. No, no. Not thinking about that, not this soon. The shit? Yooo, get your head outta the gutters, Bluey. Out. Out. Really, your entertainment may be pretty, but you don’t have to fuck all the pretty boys.

Yet.

But now is really not the time to be ogling other teenagers. Sadly.

He drags his eye up and away from where it’d been drifting… a little too low. Fixes a steady, far too lucid, far too sharp gaze on that oh-so-pretty face.

(Pulchritudinous, Nathan pipes up, instantly activating Blue’s sesquipedalophobia.

Fick dich ins Knie, he thus responds, and temporarily kicks his vexatious little brother the hell out of his head.)

His entertainment would look prettier if he’d kept Blue’s bloody handprint slathered on his cheek.

Blue is… disappointed.

With a tilted head and a scarily vacant stare, created with painstaking practice for the single purpose of bringing unease slithering into even the least likely to be uncomfortable of people, all the while still smiling, still grinning so piercingly, so ghastly, so nearly viciously, he asks, inquires, demands, “What the fuck are you wearing?”

Because, really, what the fuck is he wearing?

Blue continues, replacing the smile with pure, unmitigated offense, painting it on every inch of his face that isn’t behind kerlix: “Twenty-Three would-would… punch you if he… if he ever saw you disgracing fashion like this. Like, the hell?” His eye narrows, and he lurches forward, pushing off the wall he’d thrown himself at when the brat startled the sanity out of him, to lean ever-so-slightly closer. His eye treads down, down, down to that alluring ecru neck, tragically veiled by some sort of fabric that he’d likely find discomforting had it been on his skin instead. “Is that a scarf? Why would you be wearing that over--”

Wait, didn’t he just say that he’d just… accept things as they are? Yeah, well, he’s doing that now; his motivation to continue questioning things parts ways from his soul. Which, excellent. He’s done with the world anyway.

(He’ll start having another existential crisis soon enough, but that’s also none of your business.)

“You know what-- Just. I don’t give a fuck. You do you. I just… I have no words, so I guess I’ll just--” He makes a sudden, theatrical gesture, and. Hmm.

Ah. Well, then.

His eye widens, his hand flying up without his permission, slamming against his mouth, preventing him from performing some very interesting projectile physics.

He almost forgot that he was hungover.

Good thing he’s near the perfect vomit-drain.

(Blue has never before launched himself at a toilet so damn fast.)

== ◊ ==

8:32 MT ⇒ 8:38

Emilia’s Bakery, Bathroom (Still)

It’s mostly dry-heaving at this point, but still. That timing. The fact that Blue hadn’t even intended for that to happen.

I have no words, he’d meant to say, so I guess I’ll just throw up.

It was perfect. That timing. He cannot say it enough.

He brings his arm up, up, up to blindly feel around for the trip handle. After finding it and pulling it down to flush all that poison down into the sewers, he giggles sparsely as he withdraws from the toilet, scrubbing the back of his gloved hand across his lips, and allows himself to settle down on the tiles as he waits for the moment his stomach acts up again.

It doesn’t. It seems to be finished for now, then.

Time to get up.

...Soon.

Blue thinks of throwing his head back to glare at the heavens he’s named after, just to show whatever deity is up there how much he despises their idea of love-- annnnndd that’s getting philosophical, so he’s abandoning that thought now before Nathan shows up again. Anyway, he ultimately establishes that making his head dangle about will lead to another bout of nausea, and he’s gone through enough of that today.

Ugh, he really does need to get up. His legs are going to cut themselves off if he doesn’t acknowledge the near-worrying numbness they’ve obtained.

Hmph.

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to get up on his own, but…

His eye settles on the boy beside him, and he thinks that, well, his entertainment exists for a reason.

Blue’s hand latches onto that treacherous scarf, fleetly, before the boy donning it somehow dodges. Pulls that bewitching body just the slightest bit closer, and eyes the skin that shows in the brief moment the fabric stretches towards him. Beneath that brown hue is the internal carotid artery, the one that supplies blood to the brain. He can see it, pulsating marginally under that soft flesh with every heartbeat. Quickened heartbeat, no less. It’s strange how Blue doesn’t need to look at the other boy’s face to know it’s set in something brilliantly stoic, impassive, nonchalant; strange how Blue knows it’s a farce, a facade, a lie--because Taevion is reacting to this.

Blue just wishes he showed it.

Stolid, taciturn, reticent. Beauteous, ravishing. Interesting. Blue is so happy he’s real.

And Blue will say what he has said before: he’s keeping this one.

He can’t help but smile at that, at the thought that he will be there to crack this stone in half.

Unlik̬̋ẻ̝ ̼̆la͔͗̾͢s͇͘t̗̔ ̛̤͚͇̒̎t̫̰̊̆ĩ̹̮̆m͇̺͇̈́̋̀̉ͅe̪̥͍͐̽̔.

But this isn’t about the boy’s blood vessels (no matter how many times Blue might wish to tear into them to satisfy his sick curiosity as to whether or not Taevion’s face will remain so cold when his brain isn’t being fed its wondrous oxygen-- Ahahaha, time to put away that psychopathic goblin) nor about his insouciant nature. No. This is about Blue sparing himself one last moment to drink in that sublime visage. This is about Blue reaching a hand up, his left hand, the one free of both the glove and, suspiciously, of the severity of his injuries from last night; his left hand, so he may be free to feel those frizzy locks (or, at least as much as he can with gauze loosely wrapped around it and covering most of the skin there). This is about Blue placing his palm flat against those cinnamon curls, and gently, tenderly running his fingers up, up, up to the top of the other’s head. This is about Blue--

--pushing down, hard, to rocket himself upright onto unstable feet.

Newton’s Third Law of Fucking Motion, baby.

It turns out to be yet another mistake, though, which he very quickly ascertains. His vision swims when he tries to step around his entertainment towards the door, and his legs have all but become soggy noodles; his grip tightens in the other boy’s hair, his other hand darting out to the door, as he barely manages to catch himself.

Well, then. That was a bit embarrassing.

But Blue is naught but a fast recoverer, and so he hastily brushes off that meager blunder and tries to remember how to operate his legs again.

Rapidly, always swiftly, he snakes his hand down from his entertainment’s hair (and what an interesting texture those strands are. Blue will make sure to find a way to pet that fully), past the nape of his neck, to grip the hem of that weird-ass coat. With strength that surprises even him, he hefts that lovely body up as high as his twig-like arms biologically possibly can, and hefts/throws the boy right out.

“Now,” he begins, leaning forward and bracing his hands on the sink and doorway respectively, as if to make himself bigger (a futile effort). Settling a stony, pointedly irritated gaze on the mass across from him, he continues: “I will be right here for the next five minutes to three hours. And you will fuck right off and leave me be.”

He smiles down (down, down, down because Blue will never let the bastard stand over him ever again. Well, their height difference does exist, but… he’ll find a way around it someday) at him one last time, a bit too tightly, but who the hell will want to notice at this point--

--and promptly slams the door shut.

Submerging himself in darkness.

Blue very fucking quickly flicks on that lightswitch.

“Oh, and one last thing,” he tacks on, merrily, as if he hadn’t just practically snarled an order at the other boy a mere second ago, “thanks for all the help! Really, I appreciate it! I have no idea why you decided to ruin your life even more by putting up with me, but I really don’t ~care~! Now go fuck yourself; I need to find a way to resurrect my soul.”

----------------------------------------------------------

[2471 words]

He leaves out saying, You definitely didn’t see my little jittery problem thing earlier! Nope! You definitely didn’t see how quickly I can spiral when I’m in pain! Nope! Nossir! You definitely have no idea now that I absolutely despise being unexpectedly approached, especially in absolute darkness! You definitely didn’t see me stop breathing for a full goddamn half a minute or pretty much fall limp or see my fucking spirit depart from my body or see me testing out my malfunctioning limbs to try to feel them again or see me shake like a little whimpering fucking chihuahua or see fucking anything!! Nope!!! What the fuck are you talking about!!!! You didn’t see shit!

He forgoes spitting out all that because 1) it sounds far too bitter for his tastes; and 2) why should he be discussing something that never happened?

Blue shakes his head, sighs once more, and turns to face the boy in the mirror.

Wow. He looks like shit.

What else is new?

== ♦ ==

8:39 MT ⇒ 9:00

Emilia’s Bakery, Bathroom ⇒ Where the Food and Entertainment Is/Kitchen

Aside from clipping on his holster leg strap, putting Joshua’s pocket watch where it belongs, and meticulously adjusting his other siblings’ watches so everyone can see them in their full glory, Blue doesn’t do much in the bathroom. He mostly just stands there.

Staring. Blink-lessly, almost; he only lets his eyelid do its job when cerulean hair turns black, when matted curls become straight, when the bandage disappears and--

Blue rips his gaze away from the mirror.

He doesn’t want to destroy anything else. He’s victimized this poor bakery enough; there really is no more need to do property damage, for Christ sake.

He runs feeble fingers through his hair in an attempt to make it look… a little nicer, but they catch on a knot barely half an inch down and he immediately gives up. He decides, then, to just… do his best to unruffle Emmy’s baby blue sweater, smooth down the wrinkles littering Joshua’s baggy jeans. When he turns to fixing up his jacket, he finds that two staples are missing, and the corner of the patch of fabric from M’s dress is ever-so-slightly dangling outward. He’ll have to fix that.

(If he thinks about it, he has a lot of things to fix.

But he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t care.)

Blue can’t do much tending to his appearance, anyway. He can’t fix the paleness of his skin; the dark bruise under his eye, always there, no matter how much sleep he somehow manages to get; can’t fix the clothes he wears, can’t make himself look any less of an eyesore, because he’d rather die than sport something that isn’t his siblings’. He can’t fix his smile, can’t make it purely sweet and saccharine, can’t mold it into something that isn’t malicious, baleful, that doesn’t reek of something pernicious. He can’t fix his lightless eye, can’t make it stop from always looking so lifeless and dead.

Blue really needs to get drunk again.

He leaves the bathroom.

〈 ♠ 〉

His entertainment turns out once again to be a very generous angel, having left some aspirin and a glass of water on a counter for Blue.

Blue dumps the pills in the sink.

It’s a blood thinner, after all.

He does not like blood thinners.

The only exception is alcohol. But aspirin? It can go straight to hell.

After drinking an exceptional amount of water, Blue begins hunting for his entertainment, and also for wherever the hell that gloriously delicious smell is wafting from. He makes his way to a room with… He’s not going to question why those walls look like that. He really won’t. There’s a fireplace in there, too, and Blue tries not to stare at the way the orange flames lick up from the hearth at the walls of the brick firebox. He lets his gaze sweep elsewhere, tries to convince himself that, no, he’s not looking for an escape route or entrances that a certain kind of danger could come charging in through (because he’s beyond that, really; he’s beyond being paranoid, he is). Alas, he fails, but he does manage to piece together enough information to bring back a few more memories from last night, so. Something good came out of his scrutiny, he supposes.

Blue ambles towards the couch he assumes he collapsed in, raising an eyebrow when he finds a blanket there. It’s… similar to the cable-knit one Finn made for Emmy, except this one has chunkier knits and isn’t soft green but a pale brown. It’s also very soft, and Blue gets half a mind to bring it up to his face and rub it against every inch of his face like some sort of touch-starved kitten; though, he manages to refrain from lugging it around with him when he reminds himself that he’s not that childish.

He’s also pretty sure that it wasn’t originally on that couch when he first fainted on it, and that his entertainment is likely to blame for its existence here, but whatever.

Almost all of it is on the floor, which makes his hatred of germs (one he’d developed from spending too much time with a certain cleanliness-obsessed sister) go wild, so he leans down, yanks it up, and folds it into a pillow. He decides, then, that since he’d already gotten started, he might as well deal with everything else on the couch: he smooths down the back pillows, adjusts the cushions, and tosses the throw pillows against the arms. And then he notices another couch with cushions that have some crinkles in them and ooooohmigaaaawd he spent far too much time putting up with M’s whole Clean Up After Yourself rule.

He forces himself to leave, turning around--

Oh, look, an apple, Andy suddenly remarks, a bit too eagerly for whatever reason Blue’s brain came up with. But, yep, that is very much an apple. Sitting there. Out in the open. And is that a ray of light shining down on it from a window? Does a literal fruit have a spotlight now? Is the universe telling him that it chose an apple-- Fuck it.

What was that saying, again? “An apple a day keeps the doctor away”? Well, perhaps an apple will keep his makeshift school nurse (ahem Tuakana ahem) stay the hell away, so he’s… just… going to claim that as 100% his now, no shits given. Making his way over, quietly, like he’s about to do something sinful, he carefully takes it into his hands and tests out its texture, gently pressing his thumbs against its thin skin. And. Yeah, that’s too soft. He likes his apples crunchier.

But then again, it’s not like he’s going to eat the whole thing. Just a tiny nibble…

Urgh, no. That is very soft. Uhn-uhn. That’s going back where he found it.

Eh, he never was all that fond of apples anyway. Nathan was obsessed with them, though. Something about literary symbolisms and shit that a young, easily-distractible Blue couldn’t care any less about.

Now, where in the exact hell is that aroma coming from?

He turns his nose up into the air and takes a deep breath, as if he’s Fratineto whenever she caught a whiff of blood she’d quite-not-so-idiomatically kill for, and Blue deduces that whatever is making his stomach growl has to be coming from the bakery’s kitchen. And so, with dogged determination, he marches his way over, literally guided by his nose, lazy footsteps and the clinking of pocket watches betraying his arrival, and disgraces the kitchen with his presence.

He thinks he catches sight of brown tufts turned copper in morning light, so, before he descends onto the plate before him, he manages a quick and cheerful, “Heya, Teeheevyon.” To this, he adds a blithe (ugh, maybe that wasn’t quite the best adjective to use… It sounds a tad bit too much like-- Blue kicks that thought to the moon; he doesn’t want to risk his smile wavering), “Whaddya make for me?”

Bacon and eggs, apparently. Blue yoinks the plate close to his chest, poking a strip of bacon with his bare finger and--

“Fuckin’ Christ, are you M or somethin’?” He pinches the end of the strip with his pointer finger and thumb, lifting it into the air for intense inspection. He wonders if his entertainment knows about his siblings; he’s pretty sure he told the other boy all about them, but being inebriated and all… Eh, he’ll just tell the kid if he asks. “‘Cause I’m pretty sure sixteen-year-old her was the only person on Earth who turned her bacon into fried charcoal. Or, well, fried charcoal on fire.” He breathes out a chuckle at the memory. “Even though Ami existed, I guess M never really understood how painful flames could be. Until that day, at least, when she stuffed a literal fiery chicken strip in her mouth, yelped, fucking startled enough to throw the plate with the rest of the chicken-strips-on-fire right on the floor, and set the entire carpet aflame. Ehe.”

Shit-talking me already, Bluey? M grumbles. Blue elects to ignore her.

“Now that I think about it,” he goes on, “she coulda--heh--a hundred percent given Joshua a run for his money on Most Likely to Set Everything on Fire. Well, Most Likely to Set Everything In the Kitchen on Fire, because Ami-- Oh, at least your eggs look okay.”

And they do. Nice and golden.

“When Andy was thirteen, he loathed cooked eggs. Wanted them raw. Well, not really, ‘cause Tuakana terrified him with the whole raw-eggs-can-send-you-to-the-grave shit, so he’d eat them cooked, very cooked, no less, but he wanted them served to him raw. Or maybe that was just ‘cause of the whole… the whole…”

You only saw him eat eggs when he was eating that Korean dish of his. The reminder is stern, so he assumes it’s in Twenty-Three’s voice; he’s proven correct when the voice of Andy confirms, Yeah, what Twenny said. The fuck was it called again?

“Wait, you don’t know what the name of the thing you ate all the time--” His muttering is interrupted when he finds the memory he needs. He says, louder, “Ah! That’s right. Bibimbap. Dolsot bibimbap. The thing that traumatized me into never touching bowls ever again! It’s a--uh--Korean dish with… with a raw egg and a buncha vegetables,” he articulates, poking his finger at the eggs on his plate again as he continues his analysis of what he’s going to force his stomach to digest. “Andy’s Korean, so…”

He stares at the shit on his plate for a moment, then looks away to see if there’s anything else he can chomp on, his face screwing up at the thought that he’s probably still going to have to eat something he doesn’t really like just to bring sugar into his veins--

Bienenstich. Fucking target locked, bitch; that is his.

Screw the eggs and bacon.

He all but yeets the plate on the table before rushing to the pastries with an almost frenzied gait. Thank the unholy it’s already on a separate plate; he would’ve, without a single doubt, punched glass again to get to it.

“Oh, fuck yeah!” He hunts for a fork, finding a plastic one (eww) and snatching it up immediately. “Cake for goddamn breakfast! Hah! Screw you, ‘Kana!”

Fuck you, too, Bluey.

He takes a bite and oh hell yesssss. He can’t contain his delighted moan.

With a mouth very full of his favorite pastry (Twenty-Three would cuff him over the head if he was ever here to see him be so impolite), he acknowledges whatever presence is in the room with him (and doesn’t that sound like something supernatural-obsessed Nathan would say?) and says, “So. I bet you have questions. I don’t have all day, though, so make it quick. I gotta go to the laundromat and get my fuckin’ duffel bag; it has all my shit in it. As my baby brother liked to say back when he was smaller than me and was spending wayyyy too much time with meme-addict Andy, ‘Make use of them vocal cords. Do le speaking.’”

__________________________

[2171 words]

[Total: ~6300 words.]

(This shitty piece of shit not only took me farrrrrrr too long to finish, it crashed my docs because my computer can’t handle documents longer than ten pages. Scrolling through this shit caused such severe lag my cursor would freeze.

Life keeps punishing me for writing too much.

Anyway, I hope this isn’t all that shitty and gives you enough to work with. I pretty much just pulled all this out of my ass anyway. I was intending for it to be much more descriptive, but… I hast failed.

I was once again too lazy to go over this. Well, I did go over the first part, but the second half? I gave up. It’s, like, 12 where I am now; me is tired.)