PART 2 | FINISHED

No response. Tsk. He’s really giving him a hard time.

“There's this thing called the law and rules and it's all so dreadfully annoying,” he goes on, “but they're the reason why I totally have no idea why I call my favorite alcoholic beverages my favorite alcoholic beverages because I a hundred percent do not even know what they taste like. Nope, uh-uh. Law-abiding citizen here. What the hell am I even talkin' about, eh? Callin' things my favorites if I don't even know what they're like. Crazy, me."

Acton looks like he’s praying to every deity he learned about in history class to strike him and finally give him endless shut-eye. Which, understandable.

“Oh, come on, ack-town,” he pushes, and Blue can’t hide his wide grin this time when Acton’s eye twitches at the blatant mispronunciation of his name. “Whatever did I do to warrant such cruelty?”

“Not employing your perfectly good vision to read the sign,” comes a gruff response.

Ah, finally! A reaction! Acton must be tired! No, he must be exhausted if he’s choosing to humor a teenaged attention-seeker!

“We’re closed,” Acton adds. Then, rather curtly, “Out. Now.”

“Oh, ack-tawn, forgive me for my left eye being out of commission--”

“I mean it, Blue,” Acton hisses. Blue’s grin only grows impossibly wider as the familiar anger slithers its way onto the man’s face. “We’re closed. Out.”

Blue tilts his head. Perhaps he should try another angle. “But, Ack-Ack,” he starts, “isn’t it rude to kick out a returning customer, especially one who is just the slightest bit curious, who just wants to know--”

“Blue, I will not repeat myself--”

“--why his dearest friend is helping the Underground?”

The man freezes. Got ‘em.

Acton is surprised. Confused. Possibly--because he's smart, because even a sleep-deprived man like him can see where this is going--even betrayed. That much Blue can tell. The boy almost wants to taunt him for that; the man should’ve expected this, after all, should’ve known by now that Blue was a little bastard.

What the man feels is irrelevant. Irrelevant, irrelevant, the relevance lies in how he’ll respond.

“Is that what they’re called here in San Fran?” Blue’s posture is relaxed; it hardly ever isn’t. “Where I’m from,” he adds, “we just call them nuisances who make things harder than they already are.”

Acton fixes his face into careful neutrality. “I’ve told you before,” he begins, calmly, softly, “and I will tell you again: I don’t associate myself with the Underground.”

“Says the person who’s hidden deviants very much aligned with Underground on more than one occasion.”

There is a pause, as Blue expected, so he seeks to fill in the silence.

Another push, another poke at a tender wound he’s slowly carved into being: “Did you know that people can anonymously tip-off Corrvis on possible hideouts?”

A sharp intake of breath, fearful anger radiating from a lanky frame, and Blue will win, he just knows it. “What do you want, Blue?” Acton’s demand is delivered as a soft, gentle question. “I’ve only ever been kind to you. Welcoming, even.”

“You consider kicking me out ‘welcoming’?”

“It’s because we’re closed, Blue--”

“Regardless,” he cuts-in, and for a second, he thinks of acknowledging the fact that Acton’s likely closed early because he’s hidden a deviant in the storage room. Blue knows; Acton only double padlocks it when he’s keeping someone there. But he ultimately decides to stick with something simple: “I haven’t answered your question, and I do try to be polite, you know? So, I am here… because I want to strike a little deal with you.” Before Acton can open his mouth, he quickly adds, “Now, I… really hate doing these sorts of things. I do. Hell, if my siblings found out, they’d probably murder me. You know Andy and Twen with their moral codes; I’ve told you about them.” Then: “I’ve only done this twice before, y’know?”

A lie. He’s made these sorts of deals with many bartenders across many bars--tens, dozens, perhaps a count with three digits, considering he’s been pretty much everywhere. Whoever managed to see past his fake ID, whoever just so happened to be unlucky enough to not serve what he wanted, was his target.

“We’ve been having quite a good thing going on, haven’t we?” he continues. “But…, I need my fix, and I need to be able to get that wherever I go. You need to keep yourself alive. So…?”

“...What is it.”

Perfect, perfect. This is remarkably easy. “Every time I come here, you give me whatever, which you know means some glorious alcohol, and, in return, I won’t tattle.”

“You’re seventeen,” Acton protests weakly. A mistake.

Blue merely lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t seem to mind back when I brought you some new customers and you served all ten of us some rather strong vodka.”

“You’re a deviant,” Acton tries, this time through gritted teeth and desperate eyes. “I know you are. You do a poor job of hiding it.”

“So?” A simple, single word.

Got ‘em. Again.

He wins.

“Well,” he tacks on anyway, just because he can, rising from his seat and making to leave, “I’m sure Corrvis would like--”

There’s a clatter, a light thud on the counter, the glint of translucent red inside a marvelous bottle.

Success.

Blue grins, white teeth glinting in the warm light. He reaches out, grabs hold of cold glass, and tucks his prize in one of the larger pockets of his jacket. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

___________________

3/27/2021 - Monday | 20:00

Near Emilia’s Bakery

Blue lied about the whole “Corrvis and anonymous tips,” thing, by the way. Maybe that sort of thing does exist; maybe it doesn’t--it’s irrelevant. And he lied about giving a flying shit about the Underground, but, again, it doesn’t matter. None of that does. What matters is that he has another place to get drunk in.

It was so easy, too. He didn’t know Acton was such a pussy. Blue’d expected better from him, really.

It’s probably just ‘cause the man’s too kind. It’ll bite him in the ass, one day. Blue’s little manipulation tactics are just a taste of the consequences of his actions.

But, again, irrelevant. What isn’t, however, is the fact that Blue’s hangover is pretty much gone. Wine does quite a fine job ridding him of pain.

He’ll regret this in the morning. He always does.

He could just get drunk again, though.

Eh, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters when he’s lost in a haze, when a bottle’s half-empty. What matters is that he’s floating, that he’s away from all this filth and madness.

What also doesn’t matter is the person who’s been following him for the past hour now.

Well, not really. It’s a bit relevant, when he forces his drunk self to think about it. The extremely sus person that seems to have confused themself for his shadow is the reason why he 1) is somewhere unfamiliar and 2) isn’t quite as drunk as he’d like to be.

He put his bottle away thirty minutes ago in his effort to lose his newest stalker. It was quite an achievement, him reluctantly stowing away his precious liquid to prevent himself from drinking too much that he’d collapse again. Having to separate himself from the only reason why he continues to live makes him itch for Sally, makes him want to wake the entire block with a brilliant bang, but, even when not-really-tipsy-actually-kind-of-drunk, he knows it would be a rash decision. He doesn’t want to sully his jacket again.

As he makes his way through the streets, he praises his hungover self from earlier this evening for leaving his duffel bag in an alley near the laundromat. The heavy thing would have slowed him down.

He weaves into criss-crossing, confusing alleys, crosses over still-busy roads, makes to turn one way but goes the other, runs the How to Lose People Who May Want to Kill You algorithm so many times through his head that he’s gotten sick of it. Still, the person dressed in all black follows suit.

Blue is at a disadvantage here, you see. He’s new to San Francisco.

So, that means he gets lost at the speed of fucking light.

Especially when it’s in the middle of the night and he can hardly see shit.

And also when he’s drunk.

Damn, the world really is out to get him, huh?

His “fan” could be anyone. They could be another deviant, but that’s unlikely considering how they could’ve approached him instead of constantly ducking behind corners when he chances a glance over his shoulder. They could be Corrvis, but, again, there’s a high possibility they aren’t; he’s certain Corrvis sends out at least two people when they’re after a deviant. Right?

He wouldn’t be surprised if it was Corrvis. Acton wasn’t lying when he said Blue wasn’t really putting effort into blending in. Blue’s willing to bet half of fucking California knows that he’s deviant.

Could be a thief, though. Then, why haven’t they just… lunged out at him? They’ve had several chances. But, still, they choose to follow. The same argument could go for a serial killer; Blue’s pretty much fair game right now.

They choose to follow.

Is now also a good time to mention that they shot a tranquilizer dart at him just three minutes ago? Yeah. That happened. It missed, thank fuck, but Blue saw that thing whizz past and--

He’s actually getting a bit freaked out now, to be honest.

Blue rounds a corner, disappears into the shadows, emerges under a streetlight. When he’s reached the other lamppost a few feet away, his obsessed yandere appears at the one he was just at.

Jesus fucking Christ, this motherfucker.

He rounds another corner, swiftly making his way through an alleyway, one that feeds into another street.

He enters the street and-- Oop.

Ahahaha, he’s fucked. Yep. It’s fuckin’ dark out here and there’s literally just two lampposts. Seems like he was casted in a horror movie without his damn permission.

Looks like he’s going to get kidnapped tonight. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Whelp.

The thing is, when he’s freaked out, lost, and drunk…, Blue kinda doesn’t do much thinking.

He stops underneath the lamppost, turns around, and.

Yeah, he’s in a fucking horror movie.

This is karma. This has to be karma.

His yandere is standing underneath the other lamppost. Dressed in all black, one hand in their pocket and breath fanning out in front of them in the cool night air, their head ducked as they pretend to be on a call with someone else (or maybe they are. Maybe Blue’s actually very much fucked).

Their eyes meet.

The both of them are just. Staring at each other, now.

Well, fuck it. Blue has Sally for a reason.

His stalker must know what he’s up to (they’d be an idiot if they didn’t), must have seen the glint of silver, because they put the hand next to their ear down and slip it into their pocket, and they’ve started to… Blue spots another glint of silver.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, shitshitshit.

Uhhhh. He… doesn’t want to wash his jacket again, heh. It costs a lot, y’know? And it would kind of make a ruckus if he offed--

Wait. Ruckus.

Chaos.

That’s what he needs.

Anarchy, but one that doesn’t link him to murder because he really likes being free.

He risks a glance to the right. Bakery. Okay, no. Nothing there that can help him. To the left--

Car. Yes, perfect. Window. Break window and cars-- Cars make a noise when they’re broken. Like people. Why the fuck is he making similes.

He takes Sally, grips the top of her muzzle instead of where his hand is supposed to be, pulls his arm back, and swings--

Ah, wondrous, glorious noise.

If anyone was sleeping right now… Blue will not apologize for waking them up.

A quick glance up and--

The lights in a nearby apartment building flicker on. One by one, rectangles of glowing yellow shine back into his eye.

He glances down, to the lamppost ahead.

Nothing.

Huh. Blue didn’t really expect for that to work.

His eye returns to the car, to the bits of glass on the ground. The hunk of metal is… really wailing now, actually. Hmm.

Well. Now fucking what?

3/27/21 -- Monday -- 8:00 PM
Emilia’s Bakery

Taevion was dreaming.

The soft sound of footsteps racing over well-worn streets of cement was pounding in his ears, grounding him. It was a steady rhythm, steadier than his heartbeat. If he could only hold onto it, then he might just make it. He might just be okay.

Michael is here, too, a little further ahead of him, his body flying forward as he ran like hell towards the compound.

It was a sight that Taevion only ever saw once, and yet, it lived in his mind, haunting his memories and playing over and over again in his dreams, a broken record of sorts. It’s tall, blocky, looking like a warehouse for all intents and purposes, but Taevion knew better. They had been scouting out the place for months, Michael told him. They knew everything about it, every nook and cranny, each and every guard. It was a facility, a smaller one, Piper had told him. Easy pickings. They would go in, they would get out, nothing could go wrong.

Michael reached the fence. The gate was there, looking sturdy. He didn’t stop, his entire body tensing as he stepped through. It was harder to imagine in dreams, because his eyes could never quite see the moment of transition from when Michael actually phased through. It was almost like his eyes would always glance away or blink at the last second, leaving him unsure of how Michael's body moved through solid matter.

Michael kept going, barely pausing as he continues forward, his movements sharp and fluid. Dark hair flew behind him, reaching past his shoulder blades. It used to be longer. He cut it after everything happened.

Taevion couldn't follow the other man through the fence, but that doesn’t stop his scrawny eleven-year-old self from trying. He rushed forward, reaching out his hands and slamming into the fence, fingers gripping the wires as the whole fence shakes with his weight. He can only stare as Michael keeps going, snarling for Taevion to stay back. Can only watch as he throws open the door, his voice echoing through the streets as he cries out a single word.

Taevion knew the truth, then, even if he didn’t want to recognize it. His heart skidded to a stop, for a moment, and it felt like he was going to keel over. But then, mercilessly, it continued, and time chugged on.

Michael ventures further in. Taevion could barely see his back through the darkness, but he hears the sound of his friends’ knees hitting the concrete, cracking, aching, as he let out a yell of pain and anger. Taevion might have winced in sympathy if he wasn’t so lost in his own head.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

Somewhere behind him, the sounds of footsteps picked up. Taevion’s body froze, heart stuttering in fear once again. This was his least favorite part.

He turned, watching from his own eyes, but also watching from above. He can see the men running towards him, two of them, clothed in tactical gear, with helmets covering their faces and guns clutched in their hands. They were tranquilizers, “trancs” as referred to by most in the Underground, but Taevion hadn’t known that back then. He had only seen the huge guns being lifted, dark metal and plastic shining dully in the dim light of the street lamps above.

From inside the compound, there was another shout. It was a trap. A trap in a trap. He didn’t have time to think of Michael, didn’t have time to think about the scuffle he could hear from inside the warehouse, followed by a shot echoing through the darkness, because the men were upon him then.

He must have forgotten to wear his gloves in his hurry to get out, as he desperately ran after Michael, even after the older deviant had shouted at him to stay home. No, instead, his hand was jerked into the sky, looking pale and small against the dark, a large hand wrapped around his frail-looking wrist.

The men must’ve thought there was no use in wasting a tranquilizer on him because they didn’t bother to shoot him before stepping forward to detain him. They didn’t even bother to wear gloves, most likely thinking him to be “normal.”

Taevion is well aware of what happens next. This scene is one that will not leave him alone, his own personal hell, one of the few things in his head that can actually hurt him. He wished he could just close his eyes, forget the rest of it. Wished he could go into his own brain and force this memory out with his bare hands, wrapping them around and pulling it out like the film from a cassette, ripping it to shreds with a pair of bloody, bloody hands.

But he couldn’t, and maybe it was better this way. Maybe.

He braced himself for the rest of it, the screams of agony that would take over his body, his weak sobs as he laid on the concrete, not really understanding what was going on. Michaels’ haunted eyes as they took in the scene, watching Taevion convulse weakly on the floor as his body tried to fix what had happened, tried to reverse the damage that he had done, causing Michael’s form to straighten out with a distinct crack, bones reshaping themselves from proximity.

Michael hadn’t known Taevions’ true power before that moment. He still didn’t know everything about it. Nobody did, not even Piper, who knew more than everybody else. But he was astute enough to understand a few things if the way his eyes would both soften with thankfulness and grow vacuous with pain at any mention of the memory.

But Taevion wasn’t forced into reliving the second worst night of his life- no, a strange shattering sound cut through the haze of his mind, like shards of glass into his brain, and he sat up, gasping in surprise as the sweaty sheets fell from his body.

For a moment, he was unsure of where he was. It wasn’t Michaels’ apartment, nor was it any other places he regularly visited. Then, as his eyes got used to the darkness of the small room, he remembered. It was the back room of Emilia’s, small and cramped, with a single shitty couch, small refrigerator and coffee table in the middle of the room, as well as a large, red, oak armoire on one side that held up all of Emilia’s… extra supplies.

Taevion sighed, pulling himself wearily from the bed, knowing that there was little chance he would be getting any more sleep. When he had dreams like that (which he usually did,) they would haunt him until the morning, leaving him unable to sleep. He was glad, though, that he wasn’t forced to relive that moment in such excruciating detail.

He stood, his eyes finding the red light of the alarm clock. He stopped for a moment, processing. It was only… 8:09? He blinked in confusion. Usually, the nightmares didn’t come until much later during the night. The recent loss must have shaken him more than he had realized. And yet, he still shouldn’t have woken up until later during the dream. That was the thing about those nightmares- they liked to keep him captive, stuck in that moment until the last moment, the moment right before he would receive comfort from Michael’s shaking hand, carefully smoothing his hair away from his sweating forehead, despite Taevions’ desperate pleas to not touch him, to stay away, please, it hurts, just stay away-

But Taevion didn’t want to think about that. At the very least, he reasoned, he might be able to get some more shut-eye tonight.

However, another noise suddenly caught his attention- a shrill beeping, sudden and strange. A car alarm? He blinked, connecting the dots. The sound he had heard, the one that had woken him up, was of shattering glass. Did that mean- oh. Yes, it probably did.

Frowning, Taevion carefully unlocked the door to the backroom and made his way through the kitchen, to where the car alarm was screaming. The sound made him flinch, promising a headache would build later, but he continued on regardless.

He made it to the front room and saw that the lights of many of the nearby apartment buildings were on, signaling that he wasn’t the only person who had been awoken by the alarm. Carefully, he walked up to the window, placing his hands on the glass, palm first, and leaning forward, eyes narrowing at the brightness of the light.

----

He realized, very suddenly that he wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight after all.

(Taevion, cont.)

-

For a moment, he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at. Perhaps it was the leftover bleariness from just having woken up, or maybe it was just the fact that any normal human would be somewhat confused if the same sight appeared to him.

Now, Taevion liked the color blue. He had always thought it was a nice color, even if he didn’t wear it often. It was a hopeful color, a calming color, the color of the sky, high overhead, whether it be in shades of night or day. It was the ocean, slow and steady, with frothing waves that spilled over beaches in mesmerizing shapes, creating that soft, hissing ambiance that could be so very relaxing.

This blue was unlike any of that.

It was bright, almost blindingly so, electric blue, in shades that varied from ‘a pile of throw-up from a child that just scarfed down an entire funfetti cake with blue frosting on their birthday’ to ‘the sky is descending upon us and demands retribution for our sins.’ Or something. Really, it was bright enough that Taevion couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. Effulgent.

And it was concentrated into one individual, human-shaped spot that stood, looking quite unsure what to do with itself, on the sidewalk, gun in one hand with a dumbstruck, yet strangely self-satisfied look on its face.

It took a moment for Taevion to really recognize that this amalgamation of blue was actually a person. When he did, however, he only got more confused. Yes, it was a person, but a rather short person, with surprisingly pale skin and scrawny stature. As mentioned before, he had a gun clutched in one hand and was standing near a car, the same car which was currently letting out that shrill, beeping sound. From what Taevion could adduce, he had been the cause of the sound, due to the fact that there were currently shards of glass decorating the ground as well as the persons’ gun. There were also a few particularly sharp-looking shards that had found their way into the skin of his hand and were sticking out, blood welling up around them.

Taevion felt his own hand twinge in phantom pain and winced. Of course, this person had to get hurt. Just what he needed. There was nothing he could do, as the shards of glass were currently going nowhere from the boys’ hand, and if Taevion wanted to heal him, they would have to come out. So for now, he was stuck with his hand hurting like a bitch.

He could simply ignore this all, of course, and go back to bed. That would probably be the easier option, the safer one. But something in Taevions’ heart ached- there was something wrong with this situation, he knew it, and if he didn’t get out there now, that kid was most likely going to be heading to the police station very soon.

So, with a weary feeling settling in his bones, Taevion unlocked the door and stepped outside, so that he was a bit to the left of the other boy. From this angle, he could see him much better, not that his eyes appreciated that fact. While the conglomeration of blue was terrible enough from the back, when he was actually somewhat facing the other boy, it only got worse. Maybe it was because of the better lighting- not that it made the whole experience any better for his eyeballs.

He decided that trying to take the other boy in all at once would only result in more of a headache, so he tried a different tactic. First, he focused on the boy's shoes- not too bad, ratty tennis shoes that looked even worse than his own, which was a feat all in its own. They were blue, of course, like the rest of the other boy in general, but mostly dwarfed by a pair of too-long pants that had been pulled up just enough to allow the other boy to be able to run. They were in better shape than the tennis shoes, but there was still obvious wear-and-tear from being worn just enough times that they could be rationally thrown out.

Next, his torso. His shirt (or, rather, sweater) was, as expected, blue, but a lighter, faded version of it, softer like a partially cloudy day. It was a nice sweater that might have just offset the rest of the boys’ look if there was not that thing tossed on top of it.

To be clear, that thing was what looked to be an attempt at a jacket. Some might say it was a jacket since it was jacket-shaped and worn like one, but Taevion felt it would almost be sacrilegious in some way if he agreed. Not that Taevion was a religious person really at all, he just felt that if there was a loving God, he had turned his eyes away from this particular item in favor of ignoring its existence, and even mentioning it at all would immediately turn the wrath of god on both himself and the jacket, expunging them both from this reality and into the depths of a special hell created just for them.

The “jacket” was made up of many different materials, all mostly blue, with a lot of denim and a lot of stitching. Frankenstein himself would have been proud. How the things stayed together was a mystery to Taevion, as it looked as if it was about to fall apart at any moment, but was instead held together by sheer force of will (and maybe some staples.) The sleeves were the worst part, both longer than the boys’ hand, one being noticeably longer than the other.

There was also a fair amount of pocket watches on it, from what Taevion could see. Now, Taevion liked pocket watches, he thought they were very interesting and had thought about asking Michael to get one for himself a couple of times. However, he was sure that, at a certain point, somebody had to consider the fact that too much of anything was bad for you. Then again, from the sheer amount of blue that the other boy was dressed in, it didn’t seem as if he had ever heard of the phrase, “All things in moderation.” Or maybe he had and he just didn’t care.

To say the least, he had pocket watches. A lot of pocket watches. Probably even more than what he could see, if the clinking coming from behind that godforsaken mass of blue cloth. And while Taevion wasn’t about to tell anybody how to dress, as his own clothing choices weren’t quite… normal, either, he simply couldn’t understand that need to have that many pocket watches.

They were interesting enough, he decided, and they weren’t blue, either, which was a first. Yet, from what he could see, none of them were actually showing the right time. If he had to make a guess, he might even say that none of them were showing the right time.

Taevion couldn’t quite process all of this yet, so he made the mistake of looking at the other boys’ faces, thinking that, perhaps, his mind would have a moment of calm. Instead, he was faced with the realization that the heap of blue on top of the boys’ head was actually hair, sticking out this way and that, all caught in rather uncomfortable-looking clumps. Taevions’ own scalp ached from a phantom memory, and he shook his head. Now was not the time to dwell on the past.

His face was… well. In truth, it was nice, with high cheekbones and a symmetrical bone structure. Yet, most of it was covered by a large white bandage that should not have been able to stay quite where it was, due to the laws of physics. And yet, it sat there, a proud “fuck you” to the universe. It was somewhat dirty, and pale blue, dyed darker blue in some spots from what he assumed was hair dye, the same dye that sat in the other boys’ hair in surprisingly even layers, leaving the color to look almost believably real.

The bandage covered his right eye, and while Taevion wanted to continue dwelling on just how it was staying up, and why it was there in the first place, he forced his eyes away. It was rude to stare. His gaze instead met the boys’ other visible eye, which was just as blue as the rest of him. Icy blue, though, and shockingly intelligent. Taevion made a mental note to tread lightly.

The whole look-over only took about five seconds, since Taevion was an observant little shit, but it only left him more confused than before. Still, he shoved those feelings down to a place where they wouldn’t bother him and focused on his objective. It wasn’t safe out tonight, especially not for him, but something about this situation felt off. Sure, he could just say it was some drunken bastard trying (and failing) to rob a car, but Taevion couldn’t help but feel there were more levels of nuance to this than any outsider could tell.

While he didn’t doubt the other boy was drunk (he could smell it on him, thick and heavy, reminding him heavily of Ravens’ bar,) he didn’t seem drunk enough to do this. His eye had been clear, speaking of his tolerance, and Taevion could bet this move had been calculated. Or, somewhat calculated, he wasn’t going to discount the fact that this other boy was drunk entirely.

So, what could have caused him to make a scene? Anyone with common sense knew that smashing a car window would set off an alarm. Not to mention the fact that the kid was holding a gun. Taevion frowned. Why did he have the gun out in the first place?

Self-defense was the first thought that jumped into his mind. Self-defense, and… causing a scene? Taevions’ frown deepened for a moment, taking in the kid again. A memory, small and seemingly inconsequential, jumped into his mind. It was from about a month ago when Michael had been updating the logs.

“A couple of youngers, Anabelle Sale and Jackson Deriva… and this one kid. Blue, they say he calls himself. We don’t really know if he’s actually a deviant, not yet, but we’re highly suspicious. I haven’t seen him yet, but sources say that he’s really something…”

Taevion could only grasp at straws, of course, but if he was going to come to any conclusion, the safest bet was that this was that kid- Blue. And he certainly was. He fit Michael’s description, too.

The best reason to cause a scene was to get attention. Taevion was well-versed on the techniques of Corrvis, having obsessively studied them since he was eleven, and he knew that they liked to catch deviants with as few witnesses as possible. Perhaps this boy was on the run?

In truth, Taevion had no idea what was really going on, but he was surprisingly astute, so he decided to follow his head. Stepping forward and keeping his eyes towards the ground, he smiled softly, a sign of passivity.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soft, “are you okay?”

The other boy didn’t quite get a chance to reply, though, as somewhere behind them, a door flew open, exposing a rather beefy-looking man wearing a nightshirt and fluffy pajama bottoms. His feet were covered by white bunny-slippers that looked more comfortable than anything Taevion had ever worn. Expensive, then.

“What the hell is going on?” the man snarled, enraged.

In a moment of thought, Taevion realized that, out of the three of them, he was probably the one dressed the best for this situation (or, at the very least, the most normally), which was a first. He wasn’t wearing one of his jackets, but he had a simple sweater on with sleeves that fell to his wrists and a high, turtleneck-like collar. A pair of baggy black sweatpants with white stripes running down the sides covered his legs, and his feet were bare, though covered by the ends of the pants. He had a pair of black knit gloves on (he was so used to wearing them that he sometimes forgot to take them off.

He then realized that this truly was a terrible time to be thinking about what he was wearing.

Taevion stepped forward, his legs carrying him around the other boy, giving him a wide berth as he went until he was standing somewhat in front of him, holding both hands up to his chest in a gesture of peace. “I’m so sorry,” he began, “but let me explain-”

He then realized he had no way to actually explain this situation. Taevion was a good liar, a very good liar, but he didn’t like it. Still, coming up with things on the spot wasn’t his strong suit. He was much better at basing his lies on a small truth, as those were always more believable.

It turns out, however, that he didn’t need to worry because the man was definitely not going to give him time to explain.

“That’s my car!” he snarled. “My fuckign car! Why in the hell did you just do that, huh, punk? Looking to steal?”

Taevion scrambled for an excuse. God, he hated lying. Still, it was necessary for situations like these.

“Yes, well… you see, this is all a big misunderstanding.” Taevion let his shoulders drop a bit, looking up near the mans’ eyes but not meeting them, a sign of submission. “My friend and I were just planning to go out tonight and see my sister, but you see-” Taevion let out a fake, self-conscious little laugh and looked at the ground, scuffing his feet for maximum effect. “Well, I locked my keys in the car. So, I went to call someone, but my friend had already gotten it in his head that we didn’t need extra help, so he decided to break the window to get in. Uh, he’s a little bit drunk, you know how it is.” Taevion let out another fake laugh, letting his actual nervousness show through. “Not to mention it’s his first time at my apartment, and he didn’t actually know what my car looked like and-” he trailed off, letting the other man fill in the rest of the tale on his own.

“I completely understand if you’re angry, it was absolutely not the right thing to do and I understand if you want recompense,” Taevion rushed on, deliberately running a hand through his hair to show his ‘embarrassment.’ “Just let me call my banker and we can work out a price, all right?”

The other man seemed to think this through. Taevion smiled up at him, but berated himself internally- Call my banker? Nobody actually says that in this situation!

But the other man seemed to have bought it. He let out a sigh, mumbled, “Teenagers,” under his breath, and said, “All right, kid. It’s just a window, I guess. Let me look up repair prices and we can settle this in the morning, all right?”

Taevion let himself perk up. It seemed the scared and embarrassed teen routine had worked after all.

“All right,” he agreed readily, glad to be out of this situation. He could get the other kid into the bakery and talk to him there- if he would work with him.

Turning, he said, “Alright… Blue, let's get back inside, okay? Let’s just deal with everything tomorrow. You look tired.” He kept his tone light and friendly for the other mans’ benefit, but silently motioned with his eyes for the other kid to follow him into the bakery. He hoped this actually was Blue and not just some random drunk delinquent that could easily get out of jail time with his parents’ money.

It seemed everything would be okay, as long as the other complied.

--《 ♧ 》--

Emilia's Bakery

The alarm, comes an unwanted thought as he makes the mistake of listening to the car’s complaints, sounds very familiar, doesn’t it?

Hm.

Irrelevant. Irrelevant. Relevant but not.

Pay attention to your surroundings, Blue, says the sweet voice of Amisala, not on distant flashes of red on white walls and screams of escape!

He blinks. Slowly. Okay.

His brain starts working again.

Easy enough.

From beside him comes the sharp sound of a door unlocking, the squeak of ageing hinges, the rhythmic tap, tap, tap of approaching footsteps, but Blue does not startle as one may expect, only settles with the undeniable truth that he was wrong--the bakery did, in fact, have something (or, rather, someone) of benefit.

There is a boy, one who, oddly, or, rather, suspiciously, does not seem to care about the gun held in his hand. Blue turns, shifting to face this boy, this stranger he wouldn’t bat an eye at if he passed him on the street. He has to crane his neck up to face features that can’t be any younger than him, and this, then, makes him decide that he doesn’t like this boy, not in the slightest, because people who are younger than him really shouldn’t have any right to be taller.

Gold, is the first thing he finds in that pretty face. If the wine turning his neurons into useless piles of atoms isn’t making a fool of him, if the light is being fair, then the other boy’s eyes aren’t just amber as one might find on those fortunate enough to not be society’s outcasts, but golden--brilliant and rich in its color, at that. Although they are halcyon with how they blink at him, the way they narrow and sharpen as their owner studies the atrocity of blinding blue betrays a certain weariness that comes only from those who saw too much too soon. Beneath them lay semi-circles of bruises, dark and deep, enough so that Blue wonders if they are the mark of sleepless nights or the mark of fists; indeed, it would not be a stretch to say that they are the ponderance of memories that are not quite as pleasant as, say, a passerby would expect from someone who looks so slight and unassuming and--

Hmm.

When the hell was he so thoughtful, again? Really, this amount of vocabulary and philosophical shit and whatever-the-fuck is reserved for M, Andy, and Nathan, not a crackhead like him.

It’s like his brain has a frustrating little switch inside of it, turning on and off at random times without his control. It’s off 99% of the time, and he’s left relying on instinctive bullshit and his drive to drown everything in the act of underaged poisoning. During the 1% it’s on, it’s annoying as hell and makes him wonder if he’s been possessed by Edgar Allen Poe.

What the fuck are these analogies, again?

Oh, well.

His attention drifts to the the other boy’s voice, soft and honeyed as he asks something Blue cannot hear in his haze of observations, and Blue can only offer an ingratiating, albeit drunken, grin, teeth flashing almost preternaturally alabaster in the artificial overhead light, parting his lips in the beginnings of a boisterous greeting--

--when a man, burly and thickset, dressed more appropriately for sleep and not for dealing with problematic teens, storms over, face flushed with rightful anger. Spittle flies from his mouth as he all but roars out furious accusations, and the other boy, the stranger, makes to calm him with clever words like recompense and banker. And so Blue, as he's left dumbly standing there, wonders: what the fuck does he do now?

Well, for one, he has to make sure no one calls the damn cops and takes his freedom away from him, and that can’t exactly be done with his fucking very much illegal weapon in plain view.

In the time the two talk, which can’t be any more than two minutes, he puts Sally away (he’ll get rid of the bits of the car’s former window off her later), depositing her into her home in the inside pocket of his jacket. With his eye fixed on the taller boy’s champagne sweater, making sure he doesn’t look anywhere else but ahead, lest the fuming middle-aged man notices a straying gaze and deems it suspicious, he unbuckles his tactical holster leg strap (because it is clearly a sign of a weapon, and, as he’d already stated, weapons are a big no-no right now), quickly stowing it away in the pocket shared by the half-empty bottle of wine; the thin chain of Joshua’s watch is swiftly untied from the third strap, and his brother’s golden open-face is slipped into one the twelve small inside pockets.

Whenever his hand makes contact with his jacket, a piece of glass snags on the fabric, digging further into his skin and ruining his glove. The pain is numbed by the wine and remnants of whiskey, enough so that he hadn’t noticed his hand was injured until he started putting away any signs of a weapon, though still sharp enough that, had he not been used to pain, he would have cried out, but his tolerance doesn’t just lie with alcohol, so his eye doesn’t even twitch.

Blue waits a little longer--a second, two seconds, three, four, long enough that he begins to consider just up and running, but the little snippets he’s catching from what the younger boy is saying keeps him (impatiently) standing right where he is--and then the other boy is turning to him, a proposition and Blue’s chosen name on his tongue.

Sus.

The shorter boy stares with his head cocked to one side. He stares for what might be longer than necessary, for what is sure to make the kid uncomfortable, and, suddenly, just because he can, grins again, lopsided and blinding; says a quick, hasty, and bright, “Okay!” before making his way to the open door of the bakery and--

--tripping as his sense of balance fails him. He catches himself on the lamppost, barks of short-lived laughter escaping him as the world blurs and twists both pleasantly and not-so-pleasantly, shifting his feet until he’s standing straight again.

That was calculated. Yes, very calculated. He has a high IQ, higher than a thousand, you see. He plans everything. He tripped on purpose. That wasn’t a product of the wine. It was calculated. Purposeful.

(It wasn’t. But, hey, at least the poor man fuming in the background is given more proof of his drunkenness.)

“Uhm,” he says intelligently. Then, because why the hell not, he spares a quick glance over his shoulder in the general direction of the grumbling man behind him, and says, faking a slurring voice that isn’t actually entirely all that fake, “Sorry, sir. H-Have--” hic-- “a nice night? Yep. Yeah, sorry about your car. Really. Bye!”

Done. Maybe that’ll help the situation. Who knows at this point?

Then, because he was given an opportunity and he's going to fucking take advantage of it, Blue immediately stumbles struts into the bakery like he belongs there, the scent of food food there’s food here yessssss overwhelming his sorry excuse of a mind. Unfortunately, before he gets the chance to giggle maniacally at his luck, his stomach blatantly reminds him that he hasn’t eaten in a while, that alcohol doesn’t mix well with excessive amounts of hydrochloric acid, and that he likely has hundreds of intestinal ulcers by now.

He chuckles awkwardly to combat the very much loud growling coming from his torso. He mutters under his breath, “Yeah, so. I may or may not have eaten in a day or two.” His stomach growls again, louder than before, this time accompanied by a numb sort of agony. To his newfound guardian or protector or whatever, he, with careful sheepishness, says, “Sorry, ignore that.”

Tuakana would bitch-slap him for being so careless with his health.

...Now that he's reminded about it, he should get back into his eldest sister’s good graces before he loses the remainder of whatever nonexistent respect she has left for him. One way to do that is by patching himself up, yes?

So, of course, like the impulsive bastard that he is, he does exactly that, subsequently marching up to the nearest flat surface (the counter), pulling himself up (with great difficulty) and sitting down (even though there’s likely a seat somewhere here, one that is made to house his ass, he’s going to stay right here), and begins yanking out the shards of glass sticking out of his hand.

What the other kid thinks about that he doesn’t care about. He’s going to ignore him for the time being, actually. He never had the patience to be polite anyway.

He takes a moment to thank himself for being good at manipulating Acton into giving him alcohol, then thanks Acton himself for being so easily manipulated into handing over the alcohol, then thanks the alcohol itself, because ouch.

Once he gets two of the largest pieces out, his glove is more red than blue. It’s probably going to stain. Which, goddamn it. He really fucking liked this glove. He created it to be so effervescently azure in the first place because seeing red on his hands made his stomach despise him more than it already does.

He’s going to have to get rid of it, huh?

He tears the glove off, dislodging more shards of glass (EXACTLY HOW MUCH IS IN HIS HAND?), and. Okay.

That’s a lot of blood, actually. It might be-- Yeah, it’s going to drip on the floor now.

Hmm.

“My sister’s going to kill me,” he murmurs, more to himself than to his company. “It’s impossible for her to do it, but she’s going to.”

3/27/21 -- Monday -- 8:11 -> 8:29
Emilia’s Bakery

To Taevion’s great relief, the older man didn't seem to care all that much anymore, only slightly grumbling about his car as he watches their progress. Taevion watched him go for a moment, eyes fixed on his back. He didn’t actually know how much money he now owed this man for taking the other, assumed deviant off of his hands, but he figured he wouldn't ever have to. Michael will take care of it; he always does.

When he was done with his careful observations, he turned back to the eyesore that he has now decided to take under his wing, for whatever reason. He looks him over one last time, catching a flash of crimson as his eyes fall to the other boys’ hand. The glass shards still stick out, ugly and shining red in the light of the streetlamps, and once again, Taevions’ hand twitched with aching sympathy. He ignores the pain, even though it almost brings tears to his eyes. Really, he should be better than this. It’s just some damned glass.

Taevion has gone through much worse.

He also notices that the other boy is just… staring at him, eyes half-lidded, a wide, almost dopey grin on his face, though the way his lip is perked up on the edge categorizes it more as a smirk. Taevion is used to stares, he got used to it long ago, so he weathers it. He still doesn’t like it, though he doesn’t let his discomfort show. Instead, he just glances up into the other boys’ eye, meeting it for a moment as he looks into the startlingly bright blue, and glances away. He will let the other make the first move.

Just when he was beginning to think that perhaps this other boy might be having a stroke of some sort, he lets out a loud and completely unexpected, “Okay!” and spins around, almost giggling in delight. Taevion watches him go, unsure if he should be amused or worried. He decides to be cautious instead and begins to follow after the other boy.

It seemed he had overestimated “Blue’s” capability of working well inebriated, because the other boy almost immediately falls flat on his face and quickly has to right himself, stumbling up with a half-laugh, mixed with slurred speech that Taevion didn’t have the brainpower to decipher at the moment. Anyone else might have been embarrassed, but he had a feeling that very little embarrassed this other boy. That was alright. After all, very little could faze Taevion.

Taevion followed as Blue stumbled into the bakery, the door swinging open with a merry ring. Taevion didn’t bother to turn on the lights, the warm glow from the building gave it a comfortable sort of lighting.

He paused at the door, unsure if he should unlock it or not, but he was saved from his dilemma when Blue, half-lurching, half-strutting made his way towards where a couple of pastries were waiting in open display, his intent clear. If Taevion needed any more information, the boys’ stomach let out a loud growl, the sort that Taevion was very used to on nights when he was so wrapped up in his work that he forgot to eat.

“Sorry, ignore that,” the boy laughed, and his voice was somewhat lower now, almost a purr, as if he was, for the first time, guilty. Taevion thought it more likely that this strange person was trying to get on his good side, though, and he didn’t particularly care if this boy ate all of the pastries in the display case. They were old anyway, and Emilia baked enough daily to feed a small orphanage. Maybe that was her intent.

However, instead of finishing his quest for food, he pulled himself up onto a counter, still grinning like a madman, proudly displayed his gloved hand with the shards of glass in it, and then, one by one, began plucking them out.

For a moment, Taevion was taken off guard, his eyes widening at the sight, but then he regained composure. He had already established the fact that this “Blue” character was a crackhead, so he wasn’t sure why he was surprised. However, he did know a thing or two about first-aid, and one of the first lessons Piper had taught him was that, if you had a puncture wound, you shouldn’t take out the thing stuck in you until you had enough supplies to cover the wound, so you wouldn’t bleed out.

This was just glass, of course, so Taevion wasn’t too worried about him bleeding out. Besides, he could help fix this. If it was blood loss, then he wouldn’t be of any help, but it was just glass.

He padded forward, knowing closer proximity would help it work faster, and got close enough to hear the other boy, completely absorbed in his own work, mumble, “My sister’s gonna kill me. It’s impossible for her to do, but she’s going to.”

Taevion frowned at the words but stored them away in his mind for later. He could figure out whatever the hell that meant when a certain miscreant wasn’t bleeding out all over Emilia’s pastry display cabinet.

Carefully, so as not to startle the other, he reached his hand out and placed it on the counter near the other boy. Immediately, an even sharper pain shot up his hands in the corresponding spots that the glass was being pulled from. He winced slightly but didn’t move, allowing the other to finish pulling out the glass.

He wondered how long it would take for the boy to realize. Once, when Emilia had gotten a paper cut and Taevion had been standing close enough, she had remarked that her hand felt strange. “Tingly,” she had informed him. She hadn’t realized that it had been him, healing her from proximity.

Taevion was good at flesh wounds. He could do fuck-all to things like brain injuries, or internal bleeding, or getting rid of bullets and the like, but sickness and outside wounds? Those he could deal with. Michael had once described him as a Caladrius, a mythical bird that absorbed the sick from others then flew it to the sun, effectively ridding the world of it. Taevion didn’t do that, he just absorbed damage to a certain extent, but he could see how history-obsessed Michael could have made the connection.

His hand ached, and on it, small red spots not unlike bruises appeared on the corresponding spots where he assumed the puncture wounds could be found on the other boys’ hand. They would disappear with time, of course, but until then, his hand would ache like hell. He couldn’t completely heal the wounds, as they were just a bit too big to heal in less than thirty minutes, so dulling the other boys’ pain and speeding up the healing process would have to do. Taevion used to be better at this, but he was more careful now, too wary of losing control and injuring himself trying to take too much damage from other people. He found he could let in the smallest amount possible, or open the flood gates when it came to his power. There was no in-between.

His memories returned to that night and he wished he had better control. Especially on that night.

Taevion wasted no time, glancing up for a moment, before murmuring, “You’re a deviant.” It wasn’t much of a greeting, and he didn’t actually know if the other boy was one, but the only thing that mattered was that he sounded sure of himself. Without quite waiting for the other boy to answer, he murmured, “My name is Taevion.”

《 ♧ 》

Emilia's Bakery

Taevion.

A peculiar name, but Blue is not one to talk, considering that he goes by a literal color. Bizarrely, though, some neuron in some corner of his mind alights as it processes that information, subsequently concluding that the name fits the other boy. However, another much better neuron takes the name and promptly decides, Oh, holy shit. It's so fuckable.

Blue is going to butcher those seven, measly letters to the fuckin' moon and back.

"Thank you, Tiyavyeeohn," he replies, unable to stifle a proud snicker at his brilliant overt mispronunciation of his newest victim's name, "for stating the most obvious thing known to man." To this, he adds, "Really. Would you like a pat on the back for coming to-to such a... a... an astute-- Err. What's the word..."

Discovery? Deduction? Analysis? Diagnosis? His one thousand IQ intelligence is failing him once more.

Nearly half a minute later, he almost transcends when it finally comes to him. "Ah!" he exclaims, shrill enough to upset his own eardrums, his arms splaying to either side in yet another of his dramatic gesticulations, uncaring, of course, as to whether or not his bloodied hand smacks into his newfound pal's face. "I got it! Revelation!" He pumps a fist into the air, tiny droplets of blood launching from the injured skin and splattering onto the floor below. "Thank you, brain, for finally cooperating! Woo!"

In his fleeting burst of excitement, he hurls his noodle of a body off the counter, boosting himself forward by pushing his palms against the cold wood beneath him (he flounders, again, but God killed his sense of balance long ago, so what else is new?), smearing even more blood on its surface, and then noting, briefly, that his hand does not hurt quite as it used to. The wine must be really kicking in now, if that's the case.

"But, yeah," he says, twirling on the balls of his feet to face the undeniably baffled teen. "I'm a deviant. A hundred percent! Why do you ask...?"

Ah. He sees a connection here, one that makes his eye narrow, suddenly, makes it linger on that pretty face for far too long.

The edges of his smile grow sharper without his permission; he worries his cheeks will fall off with how wide he's grinning. "Oooohh," comes a drawl from his lips, his voice dipping into something that can only be described as a purr. "I see now why you helped me..."

Ah. He sees something here he likes. A tiny connection that flips his gut over.

Cerulean meets gold, and Blue thinks, What more do I have to lose?

Food, maybe. But he can always blackmail someone else into giving him that.

And he does need to go fetch his duffel bag near that laundromat, so if he gets kicked out for what he's about to do, he'd just be winning anyway.

Just do it.

He tilts his head as the little voice in the back of his head worms its way to the forefront. It sounds a lot like Minn.

Don't think about it too hard.

Why, he wonders, did his twisted mind find a source of entertainment in such a simple boy?

Stop. You don't like to think.

Maybe it's because Taevion's a deviant, too.

Stop thinking.

It's easy to tell, if he thinks about it.

Stop.

Why else would such a pretty face be lurking around in a bakery if not to be a little coward and hide away in the shadows?

Stop thinking. Come on. It's easy.

No, no, he wants to think about this. He wants to understand--

No.

--why he finds this boy, this deviant, this stranger to be so intruiging. He's barely known him for five minutes and already--

.

.

Don't you know not to question things?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

It'll be entertaining. Don't you want to be entertained?

Maybe, maybe, maybe, yes, yes, yes.

.

.

.

.

Then stop thinking. You have an opportunity. Be oppurtunistic.

.

.

.

.

.

Come on.

.

.

.

.

It'll be fun.

.

.

.

Do it.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Okay.

.

He does.

In a move faster than the other will be able to stop, Blue steps forward, barely even stumbling, and reaches up, up, up, to cup the other boy's cheek in his blood-lathered palm.

Drying blood smudges on ivory skin; Blue makes a mental note that tan is a perfect backdrop for red.

"Took pity on society's outcast, is that it?" His tone is light, sunny and affable, but even a fool could find the... wrongness, the beginnings of canny deceit.

His eye watches, pierces, and he finds that if he was to say Taevion isn't beautiful, he'd be lying. The argent skin, ever-so-slightly tinted beige by the sun; the dainty frame, flimsy and frail, easy to bend in half; the symmetrical face, alluring, exquisite, exotic, one that would look splendid twisted into something grotesque; the eyes; everything--Blue could go on for hours, aloud, even, because he lost his shame the first time he let Sally do her job.

He'd look so much more beautiful if he wasn't so exhausted. He'd look so much prettier if he didn't look like one of those people whose kindness will kill him.

Blue wants to see him squirm.

If only he wasn't so much fucking taller than him. Maybe that way, his arm wouldn't feel like it was about to fall off from holding it up this long. Maybe that way, he'd able to look down on the bastard when he finally snaps.

Regardless, there's something in this boy that he likes. Something... intriguing. Mysterious. Blue's going to keep him.

He goes on: "Saw a small, lonely lookin' thing not knowing what the hell to do next and decided to be a little savior, hmm?" He trails off, pauses, lets the sound of breathing be the only thing to fill the space for a moment, and stares.

He smiles a little impossibly wider, eye fluttering closed in the picture-perfect look of innocence--just because he's able to, just because he can, just because he doesn't need to see Taevion's face to know the other boy's reaction must be really fucking funny.

"Well," he goes on, slowly, gently, or maybe that's just 'cause he's slurring, eye slamming open to stare once again, "I have to say, I really don't give a single flying fuck about what reason made you go out there and save my ass, but I sure do hope you got a kick out of it."

His thumb traces down the ridge of a cheekbone, down to the edge of a sharp jawline, and then, with two parting pats against that soft flesh, his hand is gone, hanging limply by his side.

Is it just him or does his hand not hurt at all now?

Eh. He'll deal with it tomorrow.

Anyway, Taevion should know by now that he's made a mistake. A mistake that he can't get rid of, because not only is Blue magnificently unstable, he's also the product of a koala and a leech fucking. There is no other way to describe it.

He's marked his entertainment. That's his now. That's his source of fun. He's not leaving anytime soon.

His eye finally drifts somewhere else. To the ceiling, to the floor he's ruined, to the pastries, to--

WHAT.

"No fucking way!" he all but screeches, roughly shouldering past his entertainment. "Is that bienenstich?!"

It is. It fucking is. Impossible. What the hell? Why is he so goddamn lucky? Did God finally consider him His child or something? Did Satan finally decide to lay off him today? First, he gets Acton to give him alcohol, then he gets someone who will give him all the fun he hasn't had in months, and now he finally has some good fucking food.

Everything's been so damn fast-paced he almost worries he'll lose track.

But his life's always been like that, hasn't it? Everything always goes too fast.

"Tayahviohn," he says over his shoulder, plastering his hands against the glass rudely separating him from his greatest prize, and it crosses his mind for a moment that by the time he's done with this place he'll have his blood everywhere, "you have to let me have that."

Is there a key or something to get that? Does he need a key? How does he move the glass out of the way? Should he go on the other side?

"C'mon, I'm begging. I'll give you... you... the wine!"

A sacrifice, but he could always just go back to another bar with another bartender willing to serve him another three bottles of man's greatest accomplishment.

"Yes, the wine! I'll give you what's left of that shit I blackmailed Acktories into giving me! Please. I want this."

He leans in closer to the glass, breath fogging up before his treasure.

Ohohohoho, yeessss, bienenstich. He wants this shit now.

3/27/21 -- Monday -- 8:31 -> 8:59
Emilia’s Bakery

When Blue’s face first lit up with that self-satisfied, shit-eating grin, Taevion was faced with the very sudden realization that not only was he not going to be getting any semblance of sleep tonight, there was a very large possibility that he might not be getting any sleep for several nights which, while it wasn’t a new thing, it wasn’t exactly comforting either.

Still, he was sure it couldn’t be that bad. Taevion had weathered far worse than a blue midget that was well on his way to giving Taevion a splitting headache, so all he had to do was play nice (as he usually did) and all would be alright. Besides, he wasn’t really expecting much more than this when he had decided to take on the other deviant. The bar was on the ground, after all.

Blue immediately spoke, almost causing Taevion to flinch in surprise from the suddenness of sound (he held himself steady, just at the last second) and Taevion suddenly had a terrible realization that this might actually be much worse than even he had expected.

“Thank you, (some word that was definitely not Taevions’ name that Taevion immediately decided he would not be responding to,) for stating the most obvious thing known to man. Really. Would you like a pat on the back for coming to such a-a- an astute…”

Taevion could only stand and watch as Blue stopped for a moment, forehead scrunching up a bit as he worked very hard to think. Taevion simply observed him with an air of weariness that came from the information that he had probably just fucked himself and everyone else who had the displeasure of meeting this strange little man over the moon and back.

Blue’s eye lit up as he seemingly came to a conclusion. “Ah! I got it! Revelation!” Taevion did not bother to point out the fact that Blue’s choice of words could be used to describe exactly what he had just gone through and instead watched as Blue mentally patted himself on the back, head held high as if he was, in fact, the shit. Taevion didn’t agree whatsoever but opted to keep his mouth shut. Maybe this would all be fine. The kid was only a bit hyperactive, he had met other crackheads before. It would be fine.

“Thank you brain, for finally cooperating!” Blue finished, looking very smug and accomplished, even though Taevion thought he had no right to be either of those things. He punctuated it with a little, “Woo!” that sent his fist flying into the air, spattering droplets of crimson against the floor. Taevions’ own hand throbbed in protest and he bit his lip to stop himself from letting out a surprised little whimper of pain. This boy did not care about pain at all, it seemed.

This, in turn, made him turn his eyes away from the other deviant (only for a second, mind you) giving him the opportunity to hurl himself from where he was sitting proudly on the counter and letting him stumble as he tried to catch his footing. Taevions’ had shot out in a visceral reaction to seeing the other fall, but Blue didn’t seem to notice (or care) so he quickly pulled it back to his side. The quick movement wasn’t doing anything for his aching hand.

“But yeah,” Blue continued, twirling a bit to face him, “I’m a deviant. Hundred percent!” Then in a strange and sudden change of mood, the other narrowed his eyes, leaning forward a bit, and said, “Why do you ask…?”

For a moment, Taevion could only stare at him, desperately trying to keep his face completely neutral. He doesn’t know if he pulls it off or not, because the other’s face suddenly slips into something that Taevion can only categorize as a seductive grin. Taevion didn’t quite think it was the time or the place, but he didn’t voice those thoughts. Even if he had wanted to, Blue didn’t give him any time.

“Ooohhh,” he said, his voice going low and deep, nothing like how he had been talking before. Taevion didn’t know how to react, body locked into place. What the hell was happening?

“I see now why you helped me.”

Fuck.

Taevion knows, immediately, that Blue knows, and that makes his heart start to beat faster, fear pounding in his veins. A hundred questions overwhelm his mind- What’s he going to do? He just said he was a deviant, right? So, there’s no reason for him to turn me in. Unless…

Taevion had his own theories for why deviants were going missing on the streets. Several of them were kids that still were with their parents, who had never revealed to anyone that they were deviants. Though he didn’t say it, he believed that they had a deviant on their side, one that could detect if others were deviants, and they were using them to pick up kids off the street. Michael believed it was a new sort of technology, which wasn’t too far out there, but Taevions’ own conclusion wasn’t either. He didn’t like what this meant, but at the same time, it would make sense.

It might also explain why Blue had made that scene- to try and pull out any other deviants who wanted to help him and then turn them into Corrvis. Heart shuddering, Taevion’s mind worked through possible escape routes. They might assume Emilia was part of this all (which she was) so he would have to get to her first. Her apartment was on the other side of the city, but if he could get a chain of information going, she might just be saved in time. Taevion, though- it didn’t look good for him.

He considered, briefly, using his power, but immediately pushed the possibility of it away. No, never again. He had already hurt enough people.

And then, Blue did something Taevion wasn’t expecting at all. Something that made Taevions’ previously beating heart almost stop completely. It seemed while Taevion had been experiencing his little crisis, Blue had been moving closer to him, bringing his hand up. Taevion doesn’t have time to react, to jerk backward, but he knows that he stops breathing as soon as the blood-crusted palm comes to touch his face.

Everything freezes.

No. God, no.

Immediately, using everything he has ever taught himself, Taevion pulls up the walls around himself. He can feel it, that need to expel the energy, the pain in him. It would be so incredibly easy. Blue is touching his face, cradling it even, with something slightly softer than Taevion has seen on his face yet. It isn’t a good soft, though. No, it’s almost a pity. Thoughtful.

Everything in Taevions’ mind and body urges him to pull away from the touch, but he holds himself still, so perfectly still, as if moving even an inch will make him lose control.

Don’t get him wrong. Taevion always loved touch. When he was younger, he had been a very physical person. That all had to change, though, when he discovered his power. It had been so long since someone had touched him, and some part of him wanted to lean into the sensation, close his eyes and share his warmth. It was that part of his mind that promised him it would be okay, that he could touch people again, could be held again. That he didn’t have to be afraid of hurting them.

But Taevion knew it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. The only other person he had ever been able to touch was Piper, and now, he didn’t think he had the restraint to be able to touch someone.

And yet. Blue’s hand was still on his face, soft and made of flesh. He was still looking up at him with that terrifying look in his eye.

He could touch Taevion.

Taevion could touch him.

For a moment, Taevion wondered if this was Blue’s deviance, but then quickly dismissed the thought. If Blue were null to his power, then he wouldn’t have been able to heal him by proximity. So, it had to be something else.

Was it Taevion himself?

(Taevion, cont.)

Taevion wanted to ponder this question, but Blue’s mouth was opening, a sure sign he was about to talk, and Taevion could only stare and listen and keep himself so, so incredibly still.

His tone is too light, too fake. Taevion would be repulsed by the fakeness, but his mind is still heavy with everything that had just happened to really react to anything right now. He still can’t move, petrified from fear and surprise, and everything else he’s feeling right now that he doesn’t pretend to understand.

“Took pity on societies’ outcast, is that it?” Blue says eyes narrowed. There is a sanguine drop on his cheek, from where his own blood had splattered, no doubt. Taevion has the sudden impulse to wipe it away. He still does not move, however, staring into that single eye. There is something strangely… possessive about his gaze, and it takes everything in Taevions’ being not to shiver.

Blue continues. “Saw a small, lonely-looking thing not knowing what the hell to do next and decided to be a little savior, hmm?”

There is silence for a moment as the words lace the air with a sickly sweet poison. Taevion doesn’t know how to respond to that, and even if he did, he isn’t sure if he actually could. His jaw works a bit underneath Blue’s palm and he feels a droplet of red work it's way down the side of his face and fall to the ground. There is barely any sound as it hits the ground, but to Taevion, it is deafening.

Blue smiled then, cloyingly sweet, and if it were anyone else, they might think of it as innocence. Taevion, however, who knows innocence, true innocence, has seen it and has experienced it, can see through it. Blue is doing something, and though Taevion isn’t sure what it is, he is sure that Blue is not to be trusted.

His eye, which had fluttered shut, opened just as quickly, and his grin took on a manic edge. His voice is still slow, gentle, not matching the rest of his demeanor. Taevion is playing with fire. He should have left the other deviant be. He is secretly glad that he did not.

He hates that he feels that way.

“Well,” murmurs Blue, “I have to say- I really don’t give a single, flying fuck about what reason about what reason made you go out there and save my ass, but I sure do hope you got a kick about it.”

Blue is lying, Taevion thinks. He does care, somewhere. And he wants a response. But the fact of the matter is, Taevion suddenly doesn’t even know what his reason was anymore, so answering that question might be a bit harder than Blue must expect it to be.

When he doesn’t get an answer, Blue finally, finally lets his hand drop, punctuating it with a little double-tap of his fingers as he traces his hand down, down the side of his face, no doubt smearing blood as he goes. Taevion feels it as the dried blood causes the separation to be stickier, hears the sound of it, almost like velcro but not. It takes everything in him to not let his eyes follow the motion, keeping his expression neutral and his eyes on the other deviants’ face. His eye really is quite interesting. Pretty.

There are other things to be considering, however. Such as the fact that someone just touched him.

All right, then. So Taevion can touch Blue. He isn’t sure how exactly to feel about this revelation, so he simply files it away in the ever-growing list of things to think about later. For so long, Taevion has feared touching people, but now… maybe he has more self-control than he thought. Maybe it is just Blue. Whatever the case, this is something to think about (and perhaps experiment with) later.

Was that wrong? Endangering this other deviant because of his own selfish desire to know if he could touch and be touched again? Now that he’s been exposed to it again, the cradle of flesh against flesh, it feels a bit like a drug. Taevion hates drugs, and alcohol for that matter, but the more he thinks about it, the more feeling it would be impossible to not test this out. To not touch someone again.

So yes, he decides, it is selfish. But, for the first time, he doesn’t think that’s going to stop him.

Blue steps away, and Taevions’ hand aches in reminder. He stops himself from glancing down, hoping there is no physical evidence, and he hasn’t started bleeding as well. There is enough blood spread around from Blue’s wound after all. Speaking of, he needs to help the other get washed up.

He doesn’t have time to suggest this, however, because Blue’s voice shatters through the sudden quietness of the shop, excitement spilling from his voice. “No fucking way!” he cries. “Is that bienenstich?!"

Taevion’s eyes fall on the assumed pastries. He remembered those; he had had one, once, and they were quite good, but he had never been that excited about them. There was something fond and familiar in his voice as if remembering a time long before, a time full of warmth and family.

Blue says another word that might have been meant to be his name but mutilated beyond repair. Taevion realizes he’s going to have to get used to this quite quickly if he’s going to spend any amount of time around the other. “You have to let me have that.”

Taevion has always been somewhat indulgent. Seeing other people happy because of him always gave him the smallest amount of serotonin, so he tries to do it as much as possible. And while he doesn’t think Blue exactly deserves the pastry, who is he to tell the other no? Taevion remembers the way that Blue’s stomach had growled at the beginning of their time here. Of course, he would get the pastry for Blue. Even if he didn’t want to, Taevion isn’t sure he could withstand the other deviant’s begging. But Blue doesn’t seem to realize that Taevion will readily give him what he wants, as he continues to plead.

“C’mon, I’m begging. I’ll give you… you… the wine!”

It doesn’t seem like Blue actually wants to give this up, but his voice is desperate enough. It’s almost funny. If Taevion were more familiar with the other, he might have let out a small laugh. For the time being, he waits until Blue is done talking.

"Yes, the wine! I'll give you what's left of that shit I blackmailed Acktories into giving me! Please. I want this."

Actories?? For a moment, Taevion is completely lost before remembering earlier, when he smelled the Raven’s alcohol on him. He knows it’s from there due to the slightly richer scent of dill- oakwood. It's from Acton. Taevion frowned- he didn’t know the other man well, but Emilia did. He was a member of the Underground and helped with hiding deviants. Taevion didn’t know how to feel about this new knowledge.

However, he didn’t think he had long. Blue looked like he was about to shatter the glass if he couldn’t get to his prize. Sighing softly, Taevion stood and padded behind the counter, before pausing. He knew that all of the stuff in the front was old, and he also knew that Emilia had cooked a new batch that day. After a moment, he sighed.

“Wait right here,” he informed the other, before turning and unlocking the kitchen door. He disappeared inside, quickly finding where Emilia kept the newer pastries. They were in a “food safe” or sorts that kept them warm. Taevion unlocked it and gathered up several pieces of bienenstich onto a plate, as well as a couple of rolls and the like.

He quickly hurried out and stopped, laying the plate of the still-warm pastries on the counter, away from the spots of blood. He would have to wash them before they dried, but first. He glanced over to Blue.

“Once you’re done with that,” he said, “you should come into the kitchen and wash your hand off.” He would need to get the bandages- they were in Emilia’s armoire if his memory served him right. “Then, we talk.” It seems like a good enough plan. For now, he left the other to be by himself. Hopefully, Blue wouldn’t light anything on fire while he was gone. Hopefully.

For the time being, he made his way into the makeshift bedroom and pulled out the first aid kit. After a moment of consideration, he padded to the phone, an older thing, and pulled it off of its stand, quickly tapping in Michaels’ number. It rang twice before Michael picked up, worry in his tone.

“Taevion?” he demanded, voice abrupt. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

“It’s all right,” Taevion smoothed. “I’m okay. Something just came up, though.”

Michaels’ voice was hesitant as he spoke again. “O...kay,” he said. “...What is it?”

“Another deviant,” Taevion informed him. “He was out on the street, broke a car window. I think he was trying to get away from Corrvis.”

Michael swore lowly. “All right,” he said, then slightly lower, “Guess I should be there tomorrow to help pay for that?”

“That would be good, yes.”

Michael let out a soft sigh. “Okay,” he agreed. “You are all right, though? Did you see whoever it was that was after him?”

“No,” Taevion answered. “But I’m certain he’s a deviant. Unless he’s lying to me. “ That was definitely a possibility. “He’s staying here for tonight.”

“Yeah, okay,” Michael said, and his voice was tired. “I’ll tell Emilia to be careful. Corrvis might think something is up if they saw you two enter together. Better safe than sorry.”

“Yeah,” Taevion sighed. He likes spending time here, but Michael was right. It was probably safer if the Underground withdrew from the general area for a while. Emilia would have to be more careful, too.

“Did you happen to catch their name?” Michael queried. “The other deviant, I mean.”

“No, but I know what it is,” Taevion answered. “Blue.”

For a moment, the other side of the line was dead silent. Then, with a deadly serious tone, Michael said, “You’re being serious, right?”

“Yes?” he answered, confused. Michael let out a long, tired sigh.

“Damnit, Taevion. Out of all the people you could save, it had to be that little shit?”

Taevion was momentarily baffled. “I’m… sorry?” he said. “Is something wrong with that?”

Michael sighed. “Blue is… well, his reputation precedes him,” he explained. “He’s a menace, from what I’ve heard. Apparently, he just barely threatened Acton today. We were hiding some deviants at Ravens and had to move. I know this landline is safe, but I still don’t feel good taking over it. I’ll come to get you and… Blue… tomorrow morning. For now, just be careful, okay?”

Taevion frowned. He knew that Michael was only being careful, but the way he talked to him sometimes made him feel as if the man thought he was stupid. He was just being careful, of course, but there was nothing Taevion despised more than being treated like a child.

Well, that wasn’t true. There were certainly other things he despised more, or equally. But that wasn’t the point.

“Okay,” he said. “Will do. Bye, Michael.” Before Michael could protest, he hung up. He wasn’t in the mood to be treated like a child.

He also wasn’t in the mood to deal with Blue’s antics, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. Sighing, he turned the first-aid kit in tow and hurried out to the main room, where Blue was waiting. He set down the first aid kit, almost expectantly as he waited for Blue to finish his meal.

《 ♧ 》

Emilia's Bakery

Blue almost explodes in the minute his entertainment spends not in the room. He’s nearly tempted to break glass again, more than willing to bloody his hands once more (and wouldn’t that make Twenty-Three pissed?), but, fortunately, the sound of footsteps draws him away from the barrier that dares stand before his treasure--that and the likelihood that he’d swallow glass shards if he lost his patience and went through yet another rash decision.

His entertainment returns, plate in hand, and Blue barely refrains from jumping into the air in uncontrollable delight at seeing man’s greatest inventions within his reach. He all but tears the plate off the counter, holding it up with his gloved hand. He turns away, back facing his entertainment, as if to shield the baked goods from the other’s flimsy fingers. He’s stuffing his face full within seconds, murmuring a quick, “No time for thanks,” that sounds illegible around a mouthful of caramelized almonds and vanilla custard.

(He’s using his hand, by the way. The one that’s covered in fucking blood. There’s plastic spoons in a small cup on the counter right in front of him, but why put them to use when he has a perfectly good palm and five perfectly good fingers to shovel in four pastries at the same time into the seemingly endless cavern that is his mouth? Besides, he doesn’t like disposable plastic cutlery--their texture is weird as fuck, and he always worries their sharp edges will cut into the inside of his cheeks. And, he’d also need to lift his arm to get them; they’re busy enough as it is helping him break every speed-eating world record.)

((It’s definitely not because he’s too hungry to waste a precious second obtaining a spoon.))

His entertainment says something that sounds like the word “talk” and Blue immediately dies inside at the idea of having to participate in communication. He’s aware he has fully functional vocal cords, but he really doesn’t like to use them.

He swallows (a little painfully, considering his esophagus can’t really handle that much food all at once) to free his tongue enough to say, “‘Kay-’kay. Hope you’re patient, Tayawiuhm, ‘cause ‘Kana’s--” he spins on his heel again-- “always told me--” to face-- “that I’m a ridiculously slow eater--” absolutely nothing.

There’s no one there.

Blue’s alone.

Rood, he thinks. He would cross his arms if his hands weren’t full. Who leaves their guest in an empty room to fend for themselves? Where’s the politeness, the decorum, propriety?

He’s alone.

His entertainment’s gone, slipped away fuck knows where and left him standing here.

Blue could literally do anything without supervision. His entertainment may not realize, then, that San Francisco’s most infamous pest could just up and decide to burn down the entire block. Could it be that the other boy is not only aberrantly unemotional (or maybe not. When Blue was so close to him they were pretty much sharing the same air, he did look… It’s something Blue really doesn’t want to put a name to right now, but it did give him a boost of happy hormones, so that’s really all that counts) but also has a thick skull? Or does he just not care about the mentally-not-really-here kind-of-unstable brat chilling dangerously near the kitchen, where there’s very much very dangerous things--like, say, fire and knives? Blue’s pretty sure he should be at least being watch-- Okay, you know what? Fuck it. Just accept things as they are, Blue. Accept things as they are.

Accept that you’re alone.

Accept that you hate being alone.

Accept--

Ookay. Let’s not do any spiralling shit today, thoughts; we’re entering territories more dangerous than Fratineto in the kitchen. Or Joshua, for that matter, but for a different kind of danger.

Ugh, was Joshua a fucking horrible cook when Blue was thirteen…

That’s right, comes a gentle thought. It sounds like M. Just think about Joshua. Remember that time he set the kitchen on fire?

As Blue works another pastry in his mouth, he can’t help but respond with a simple, “Yeah.”

Everyone was panicking that day. Never heard Threnny scream before. Or ‘Kana. Didn’t Nathan lose his shit, too?

“Mm-hmm.” He digs around the plate for more bienenstich, but alas, he has devoured all of it. He wrinkles his nose at having to ingest the other non-tasty items.

It was a nice day, though. It was funny seeing our most composed family members bury their sanity.

He thinks there might still be charcoal stains in the cabin from that… event. He’ll have to check the next time he visits. For now, the most he can do is finish off his plate.

It was nice.

He agrees.

Nicer than being alone, huh?

Ah.

He clamps his eye shut, resigned. Looks like the silence is really affecting him now if their voices are turning against him. That was quick.

Time to get rid of his thoughts, then.

He puts the plate down and hunts for tissue to wipe his hands with. He can’t have buttercream all over the bottle of his beloved wine, after all.

Would you look at that, not-M says, he’s getting drunk already at the slightest inconvenience.

Well, alcohol solves everything, so why the hell not?

You’re delusional if you really think that.

Fuck off, M.

No.

Well, okay. It doesn’t matter; his now semi-clean hand is around the neck of the bottle now. His teeth find purchase in the cork exposed to the air, and, with a jerk of his head, he’s free to taste another glorious thing.

You’re really going to get blackout drunk here?

Why not?

You--

I don’t care.

Silence.

Which might actually be worse now that he thinks about it, because now his heart isn’t racing in frustration towards his shitty brain having nothing else to do but make shitty thoughts with the voices of his siblings. No, it’s beating almost painfully against his ribcage because, well, Blue really doesn’t fucking like things quiet.

He’s alone. He’s alone, he’s alone, he’s alone, he’s alone, he’s alone, he’s--

He hunts for a sound, any sound, that he can attach every fiber of his existence to. Outside--nothing. The car’s shut up a long time ago; its owner must’ve done something about it. So, that’s out of the picture. Inside--mumbling (??? Is someone talking nearby?) and… ringing.

Ringing?

No, wait, that’s just his ears fucking with him again. Ahahaha.

It’s too quiet. Fuck, it’s too fucking quiet.

Uhhh, he does have the pastries he forewent in favor of his short side-quest for a paper towel (one that he did actually throw in the trash ((albeit absentmindedly, considering he was busy sparring with the flesh between his ears)) when he was finished with it. He’s not that much of a slob). Time to latch on that, he supposes.

But the moment he stands in front of it, leaving the wine to the right of the plate, plastic spoon in hand because he doesn’t want to hunt for another bunch of tissues, his stomach lurches.

He ate too fast, it seems. The little bastard in his torso needs time to deal with suddenly being this full after months of barely eating anything.

His heart is starting to believe it can survive outside of his chest, now.

Fuckity fuck. If he doesn’t calm down within these three seconds, he’s fucked. One hundred percent. It’ll actually start showing on his face, and whenever that happens it hardly takes a minute for him to just… stop functioning.

Ugh, he hates this, he hates this, he hates this.

Wait, he realizes, he still has the wine.

Oh, thank everything holy.

Yessss, time to erase his pissy bitchy thoughts.

Now, where did he leave-- Ah, yes, to the right of the plate. Exactly why didn’t he immediately turn to humanity’s magnificent life-giving liquid to chase his mind’s creations away? He went for the plate instead, which… Really, pastries have got nothing against sherry wine. What, did he really think his childhood favorite could--

Nope. Uh-uh. Bad thoughts. Do not bring up his childhood, nossir. No. Begone.

But, yes, darling vinous drink, come to papa.

It barely takes him ten seconds to down three glasses worth of wine. His stomach twists in protest, but the thing can go die, really. It’ll find a way to cope.

There’s barely any left when he detaches his lips from the glass. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eye settles to the space ahead and--

He almost drops the bottle. Thank God there’s barely any left.

“JESUS GODDAMN CHRIST!”

Apparently, his entertainment floats off the ground whenever he walks. That’s the only way to explain how Blue hadn’t heard his approach.

He lets his displeasure be known, of course. “You fucking piece of shit,” he starts, breathlessly, one hand over his abused heart and the other on his knee. “You motherfucker. You twiddling little ass.”

He forces himself to stand up, sending the bitch the most ruthless glare he can procure, so powerful his eye has to be ejecting daggers.

(His pout ruins it.)

“How the hell are you that… that-that… that quiet?” he demands. He’s genuinely awed, here. “My middle finger salutes you.”

It’s then, when he’s about to open his mouth to hurl another set of creative insults, that he notices his entertainment has brought him a first aid kit.

Oh, how sweet.

Blue advances to his entertainment with surprising lucidity, batting the other boy’s hands off the thing (he thinks of pausing here to admire just how dazzling red is against light umber, but instead discovers that he’s not the only one here who wears gloves. The thought makes his eyes brighten a little) and hastily grumbling, “I can deal with my own hand myself,” before the kid gets the idea to help him.

He rolls up the sleeve of his jacket (and notices, distantly, that his arm is a fucking stick. It’s not just the severe lack of flesh, it’s the crisscrossing lines of… Hmm. Best not to mention that) and digs around for a bottle of--non-ingestible--alcohol. He finds it relatively quickly--a small 30-something fluid ounce of 91% rubbing isopropyl. Good. What’s better yet is that the thing doesn’t have a screw cap; it’s flip-top, so he abandons his original idea of having to perform one-handed gymnastics and just flicks his thumb and pop it goes.

He grabs the body of the bottle and-- Hmm. He should probably be doing this over a sink, shouldn’t he? Actually, he should probably wash his hands first because-- Y’know what, screw it. Screw it all.

He tips the bottle over, spilling nearly all its contents onto his remarkably still-bleeding hand.

Yeah, that really fucking stings.

Shouldn’t he have tried to stop the bleeding first? Does that not matter?

It is during times like these that he really wishes his big sister/nurse Tuakana was here.

...On second thought, he’d probably be dead by now if she ever found out he was wandering around being an “idiotic moronic stupid spawn of Satan and Judas who fucked under Jesus’s bed”.

Well. There’s no (non-ingestible) alcohol left. Job done?

No, wait. Gauze. Right.

He snatches a roll of a woven gauze bandage. He really should be putting on some sort of gauze dressing first, but, again, he really wants this done already, so he places the end of the roll at the inside of his wrist, wrapping it around twice, then pulling it diagonally across the top of his hand, where the deepest punctures are, to his pinky finger. And… What’s next? Ah, yes: he loops the thin fabric around his pinky finger, then under his two other fingers to wrap around his pointer finger. From there, he pulls the bandage back to his wrist, crossing diagonally across his palm, and wrapping it on the skinny-as-fuck bone there again. He repeats the pattern seven times because he enjoys overkill, securing it with medical tape.

Finally. Done. Finished within a minute. Fuck, yeah.

He doesn’t bother putting away all the medical supplies now scattered over the counter’s surface.

Also, there’s a pool of (non-ingestible) alcohol on the counter.

The poor, poor fucking counter.

Eh, his entertainment can take care of it.

He plants his elbow on what might be the only part of the counter he hasn’t completely dishonored, resting his chin on his now-bandaged hand, making direct, undeniably disquieting eye-contact with the other boy, and beams.

“So,” he starts, “you wanted to talk? I can do that.”

PART 2 | FINISHED

For a moment, there’s only the sound of breathing, perhaps even the sharp intake of air coming from his entertainment in a preparation to begin, but Blue won’t give him the chance.

He slams his palm on the counter, the resounding thud echoing throughout the space, the corners of the bakery, their heads.

And his grin turns evil.

“Get ready to regret wanting a conversation with me! HA!” A loose guffaw, manic in all its right, pierces the… whatever the fuck can describe the atmosphere these two shitheads are in. “Let’s commence with introductions, shall we? I’m Blue, but you clearly knew that already. Now--" a resounding clap of his hands, muffled by the glove and bandage-- "before I get to anything else, I’m going to say one thing here: I suck at darts. I’m going to throw a dart right now, and hopefully it hits its mark…”

He tilts his head, narrows his eye, sharpens his already briery simper.

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

He lets that question linger between them for a second.

And then moves on immediately.

“And you’re Teeyivouhn, but I knew that already. Clearly.” His eyebrow furrows in thought. “How do you spell that, anyway? T-A-Y-A-V-E-E-O-N? T-E-Y-I-V-I-E-O-H-N? Eh, fuck it.” He flicks his wrist, as if to slap the idea away. “I’d forget about it anyway. But, yes, Tayeeviiomn, very much nice to meet you. I appreciate you helping me out, yes I do. I’d probably be fodder by now if you didn’t make the mistake of ruining your life by taking me in, so I’m going to suck it up and be polite for once and tell my ego to go fuck itself to tell you that I’m extremely grateful, yes, yes, yes, I am.”

He pauses for long enough to snatch his (ingestible, this time) alcohol from beside him on the counter, tipping his head back and--

There’s nothing fucking left.

What. Since when. How. How did that happen. Why.

He tips the bottle completely over and--

Not. One. Drop.

Yup. He’s undergoing the five stages of grief now. He punctuates this by intelligently murmuring, “Oh, fuck me so hard my dick falls off.”

Whelp.

He’s going to make a detour to a nearby bar tomorrow when he’s off to get his duffel bag.

He hates his life.

Blue chucks the alcohol over his shoulder, fully expecting it to shatter against the wall.

Instead, it lands in a trash can.

He is a trickshot master. This, he does not acknowledge, because he already knows he’s awesome.

“Anyway,” he goes on, gesticulating wildly, “I’m the twelfth in my family. There’s twelve of us, in total, and… Pfft. We’re a reeeaaal force of nature, let me tell you. Let’s see… Counting from the first to the last, which is me, there’s Joshua, Fratineto, Emmy, Amisala, M, Minn, Finn, Tuakana, Twenty-Three, Andy, Nathan, and, of course, good ole me.” He laughs a little at that.

It sounds a bit too sad.

“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?”

It sucks, a little, that they're not around for him to see it.

“Well, moving on from M, we’ve got the twins: Minn and Finn. Minn’s older by five minutes and he thinks it makes him superior, but it really just makes him an ass. Heh. They’re… eighteen now, I think. Yeah, eighteen. Turnin’ nineteen sometime between June and July.

“‘n’ then there’s… There’s ‘Kana. Tuakana. And Twenty-Three. Tuakana’s going to turn twenty-two, which is how old Twen is, sometime in August. Those two, lemme tell ya, back when I was thirteen, they kept everyone sane. Strict as fuck, ru’ed with iron fists. Without ‘em, everyone would’ve broken apart years ago.

“But, yes, who’s next? Ah, yes. The shi’heads. Andy and Nathan. M keeps ‘em calm ‘n’... quiet most of the time, but, back when I was thirteen, withou’ her? Ev’ry’ne was fucked. No one expected those two to band up ‘cause Andy’s not only a gamer, he’s a hermit, and Nathan… Nathan’s Nathan, so seeing those two wreak havoc gave ‘Kana and Twen and Joshua IBS, migraines, and extr’me blood pr’ssure. Whew. I’m a’m’st glad I’m outta their faces, to be hon’st.”

He’s slurring now. Well, he was already slurring before, but now? A lotta slurring.

He can hardly think.

Good.

“And… and then there’s me. Bluey. I’m turnin’ eighteen this… this December. Ha. They rea’... rea’... really did… Hmm.”

He shakes his head. He can hardly think. Barely. He doesn’t need to. He doesn’t want to.

“Yes, I know,” he goes on, on, on, and his grin’s even more askew than it ever was before. “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.”

He misses them.

But it hurts a little less, with the wine swimming in his veins.

“But, yeah,” he finishes at last. He doesn’t realize he’s drunkenly bowed his head so close to the table his face is almost on it until he snaps his neck straight and nearly tips over backwards.

That’s a run-on sentence. Nathan’s inner grammar god would strike him down for that.

He blinks a little, narrows his eye at his entertainment, who’s become naught but a blur of colors. He takes a moment to rub his eye and… Yeah, he’s probably going to pass out soon. That’s too bad. He wanted to talk about his siblings more.

“Tha’s… that’s--uhm--that’s us. Them,” he says. “So, like, what ab’t… what abou’ you? Got any--” hic-- “fam’ly?”