skinnedhearts

[skinnedhearts]

love scars

He doesn’t know when the scars first became a symbol of love.

From an outside view, his mental image of them can be seen as some fucked up game Micah chooses to ignore the warning sides to — collect them all! The expanse of his skin at some point had become that similar to a paper card handed to frequent visitors at a shop; a stamp for each visit with ten being the goal for a free prize.

Micah had lost count of how many stamps he had collected already.

“You’ve got to stop doing this.” Reva had jammed her chipped, gray nail polished index finger against the side of his neck, purposely hitting the freshly tended wound that Quinn had just patched up.

“Reva…” Quinn’s tone was laced with concern and warning.

Reva simply chose to ignore it, further digging her finger into Micah’s neck where she watched his tainted blood stain the gauze cloth on his injury, “Is this some fucked up game to the two of you? Where’s the end goal? When you’re dead!?”

“Enough, enough…!” Micah erupted in a sea of whines, his hand slapping away at Reva’s in pain. “So he went a little overboard with the biting this time,” he shrugs, “It ain’t like I’m dead.”

“Darling—”

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Reva cuts into whatever Quinn had to say, “Why are you so bent on still sleeping with the guy, it’s not like you don’t have other boytoys around to fuck.”

“Because he’s in love…” Finally able to speak, Quinn’s words plummet the room into silence.

Of course that was the obvious answer to it all, Reva was aware of that much as well. But deep down… a part of her had still hoped that her dumb cousin didn’t bear the constant injuries he’d obtained because of such a troublesome emotion. It wasn’t that Reva didn’t wish for his happiness, no. Call it fear and concern that she wasn’t sure how to express — that one day, Micah would cease to exist.

♥

He had a habit of studying every mark on his body.

Though his time alone inside the house was rare, Micah knew that he could always count on the brief window he obtained the moment he wandered into the bathroom to turn on the shower and let the sound of the water stream fill the room.

“I’m probably going to take a while so out, out,” he had nudged Nameless out of the bathroom, giving him no chance to inspect the damage that was left behind on his body.

Micah knew that Nameless wasn’t dumb, somewhere in between their moments spent together under the sheets, he knew that his streams of pleasured filled moans had hitched into sounds of pain in the middle of it all. Many times in those moments, Nameless would pull away — rare times in other moments, Micah would distract any concern with a simple roll of his hips and a breathless plea for more.

“Micah…” Nameless’ voice held a warning to it, a silent command demanding to see. The tone only made Micah’s heart twist.

“I’m fine,” He interjected back in response, the burning sensation he felt on his hips and blood dripping down the new wounds on his skin saying otherwise. “You want to pamper me that badly, babe? I’m touched… How ‘bout you go fetch me something to eat then. I've got a meal in the fridge that I've been saving, if I'm lucky enough, Inigo has probably yet to eat it."

"Why are you being so damn stubborn about this as if I didn't hear the noise you made earlier."

Micah sighed, "Because I'm fine…" Through the bathroom door still slightly opened ajar, Micah reached out to gently cup Nameless' face with his hand — with his thumb, he stroked circles on the curve of Nameless' cheek, "I'm in one piece, aren't I?"

Tender… Micah's golden eyes drowned in a honeyed tenderness that took in every detail of Nameless' face. From the dip in between his displeased, furrowed brows, to the doubt in his eyes, Micah soaked it all in.

"I just wanna take a quick shower. Think I deserve that much considering the fact that someone likes to dirty me everywhere."

The response isn't one that Micah wants, but his stubbornness is what makes Nameless pull back with a sigh, "You're letting me see after you're out of the shower."

"No promises, sweetheart."

Before another cycle of disagreement could begin, Micah closes the bathroom door. His sigh is a silent one, a sudden exhaustion washing over his entire body. Every small movement, every gentle shifting; all of it causes the muscles in his body to cry out in pain. But it’s in front of this full body mirror hooked onto the bathroom wall that he can turn his body one way and then another — some faded out scars here, some new, dried up scabs there… And on his hips, Micah lets the tips of his fingers gently stroke the freshly done marks with a touch as light as a feather.

His blood smears onto his freckled skin, but he pays no mind. His attention solely focused on the way his fingers looked above the indents where Nameless’ fingers had deeply dug into his skin to the point of piercing. No one would agree with his thought process, but to Micah, these injuries felt like home.

♥

“You should get rid of them.”

“I already said I’m not going to.”

“Are you that sick in the head?” Asya’s voice holds an edge to it, a displeased growl laced in anger and hidden concern, “Nevermind. Don’t answer that.”

“Aw, after all these years, you finally know me like the palm of your hand? I’m touched, Kier.”

Asya isn’t pleased. Of course he isn’t. Though Micah hoped that he would somehow be able to talk himself out of this current predicament he’s found himself in, he knows that a broken bone is a lot harder to ease the edge out of than some cuts and bruises.

In our defense, it’s not the first time a bone has been broken. He wishes to say, but he knows the statement would not ease the situation regardless of how much truth it held.

Yes, it was unfortunate that his arm still held an intense ache despite the majority of the shattered bones in his arm being healed; and of course, there was no greater turn off to sex than his sudden shouts in pain, but he was no stranger to a few chipped bones. He really wasn’t…

Sometimes, in the heat of it all, Micah would rarely notice the way Nameless’ hands would grip too tight around his arms. His only focus in those moments being how good it felt to be pinned down against the mattress, touched in ways that made him feel so, so wanted. He craved for that desperation the most, he thrived off the intensity of it all rising the moment his legs wrapped around Nameless’ waist to pull him closer — I want you… he’d gasp into the shell of Nameless’ ear, just you, you, you…

( Micah’s punishment would come the next day, when he’d wake up with his arms unbearably sore and swollen; dark, nasty bruises in the shapes of fingers signaling the injured area.

Fractured, Tea would run a smoke covered hand above Micah’s wounds at a later time. At this point, he was unphased. At this point, Micah knew not to glance at Nameless’ face during it all. You have but a fool’s luck. This could have been two broken arms.

Maybe so… Micah hums, his legs kicking and swaying as he sits on top of the kitchen counter. But it wasn’t, so we’re all good now, right?

Wrong. He knew this, he really, really did… but he’d always hope it wouldn’t be the last time. )

“Look,” Asya began, and Micah instantly understood his tone of voice as a lecture to come. “Quinn and I have been talking, she thinks there’s a way we can get rid of the scars without her personally taking an effect. You don’t have to keep living with all the marks you’ve gotten, Micah. It’s fine to get rid of them.”

“It’s my choice to keep them, isn’t it?” Micah hisses, his body tensing in defense similarly to a mother cat protecting her children. Similarly to a witch desperate to be in love, protecting the only marks he can keep of his lover. “I don’t know why you, Revs, and Quinn give me such a hard time ‘bout them. My body, my rules. I didn’t know I somehow belonged to all three of you, too.”

“You’re romanticizing them, Micah. You’re getting hurt.”

“Oh, so now the paranoid, jealous hypocrite wants to speak to me about what’s healthy and what isn’t.”

Asya responds with silence, and Micah sighs with guilt.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…” Too embarrassed to meet Asya’s eyes, Micah glances away to where Nameless resides at a distance with Tea; possibly going over Micah’s newly obtained injuries. “We can’t be together, y’know. Not the way I want us to… It’s funny… I never really realized how much I longed to be in a sappy, disgusting relationship the way you have one with Sylvs. With the kissing and the y’know,” he gestures vaguely with his one uninjured hand. “The closest I get is this weird no label thing.”

“... But don’t you think this is still good enough?”

“You tell me, Kier.” Micah glances back at Asya, sunset meeting forest land. “Would you be content never having anything official with Sylvee? Knowing that one day, one can just walk away and you can’t hold the other back because it’s not like you ever had anything solid to begin with.”

Asya can’t help but sigh, and Micah knows that at least for now, he’s won this miniscule dispute.

“You can’t keep seeing these scars as your only symbols of love, Micah…” Asya still speaks, settling on the couch next to Micah where he picks up the arm brace Tea was meant to strap on him before calling Nameless aside. “Not to come off as a smartass over the obvious that you’ve done already, but try talking to him, you got that?”

Without an instant response, Micah gently strokes the scars in shape of puncture wounds peeking out from the holes in his ripped jeans. He knows Asya has a point, he knows everyone who’s ever spoken to him has had nothing but insightful advice to say, but in the moments where Micah feels himself work up the courage to speak, to confess the love that’s been bubbling up like a geyser deep within his heart; ready to burst… self destructiveness is a hell of a drug that kicks in.

And though he knows that Nameless himself has a better head in his shoulder — proven the times he ignores Micah’s advances and tucks him into bed with such tenderness (how it aches, it always aches…), he can’t help but fear that if he were to speak, it would all come crumbling down.

“I’ll think about it.” Micah responds, and Asya knows that’s the most he’ll get out of him for now.

[skinnedhearts]

only human

From corner to corner, splatters of paint covered the canvas. There's no readable pattern in the swirls of color. The bristles of a worn brush dip into the paint, tugging it this way and that way in an abundance of overflowing creativity.

It's messy, the creator knows as much, God would say, the beginning always tends to be.

Sylvee hummed, craned their head to the side in contemplation and dragged the paintbrush across the canvas. Behind their eyelids the visualization of what they want to create was as clear as day; An angry, jaded sea, surrounded by mossy rocks and tall, looming pine trees. The mist atop of the seafoam was as prominent as the blank bolder between Sylvee's ambition and their lack of skill. If that's what they could label it…

Sighing, Sylvee lowered the paintbrush and placed it on the wooden easel. 

"I've accepted my failures. I'm not a Witch. I'll never be able to summon any sort of magic, not because I lack resilience or even the determination for it, but because I was born human." Tucking a strand of loose hair behind their ear, Sylvee wistfully continued, "No matter how much you water it and place it under the sun, a daisy will never bloom into a rose." 

"Sylvee," Asya sternly began, "You are a Witch. We all unlock our magic at different points in our lives. Eventually, you'll unlock yours too." 

Glancing away from the unfinished painting, Sylvee turned their attention towards their boyfriend. Asya met Sylvee's forlorn gaze with a scorching glare. Over the kitchen table, he crossed his arms and with his head he gestured towards the stack of books and tomes located in the corner of the room, "You're not giving up, are you?" 

"Well.." Sylvee nibbled on their bottom lip, using their two front teeth to pick and peel the dry skin off, "It won't get me anywhere." 

At one point, on a brighter day, the mountain of books had appeared promising, even if the stack dauntingly towered over their head, Sylvee had thought it to be a sign of hope. Now, the enormous hill looked like an impossible hurdle they'd never be able to jump over. After the skin on their knees bruised a deep shade of purple and black and the palms of their hands ripped open from constantly falling on their face, Sylvee thought they deserved a break. 

Asya shook his head and opened his mouth but before he could get a word out, Sylvee raised their palm in the air, "Is a daisy less beautiful than a rose? Do I have to be a Witch? If I were only human, would you love me less?"

Baffled by Sylvee's preposterous question Asya's eyes widened, he gasped like a fish out of water, "Of course! Of course I would still love you! Why would you ever think otherwise!?"  

"Because Asya...I'm trying to tell you, I'm only human." Sylvee placed their hands on their lap, one over the other, their breathing matched their calm, melancholic tone, "It isn't a form of self deprecation, nor is it a spontaneous realization. Over time, I've come to accept the truth…Truth being, there's no magical abilities within me and I believe…" Their eyelashes fluttered against the glass of their glasses, the tiniest of smiles tugged at the corner of their lips, "I believe it's okay, it's perfectly okay to be human. Isn’t it?”

Rising from his seat, Asya quickly crossed the living room and moments later, collapsed to his knees before Sylvee. He weaved his fingers through Sylvee's, brought their knuckles to his lips and scattered kisses on their skin, "It's more than okay Sweetheart. If it's what you've decided I'll whole-heartedly support you." 

As bright as the morning sunrise, Asya's support came down on Sylvee like a freshly lit beacon of light. Their heart glimmered and palpitated. "I want to focus on my art from now on. I keep trying to juggle multiple things at once, a few of those things only bring me misery...I want to cut those out." From the corner of their eye, they observed the stack of books. Books. That's all they are. Suddenly, they appeared less frightening. "I'll return the books to their proper owners tomorrow morning. Will you help me, dear?" 

Asya nodded, "We can take care of it tomorrow." He paused and gently cupped Sylvee's face between his  hands, "You inspire me Veevs. I can't wait to see what you'll create." 

Like warm butter, Sylvee melted into Asya's touch, "You're too sweet on me…"

"I'm being honest…You're incredibly talented. Museums will fill their walls with your work."

"You really think so?"

"I know so." 

Sylvee leaned down to kiss Asya, and all through it, the smile on their face stayed in place.

[skinnedhearts]

moment’s peace

Sleeping was never a strong necessity. Around the time the clock began inching closer to four in the morning, the once crowded streets smelling of intoxication and sparking with magic would begin to dull down. Clubs would wrap up for the night, Witches looking for business openly in the streets and secretly in the alleyways would retreat, and Micah would lean back against the brick wall of another underground club that had closed an hour prior.

It was the only moment that he’d allow silence to surround him.

Despite the present shadows underneath his eyes from another night without sleep, golden hues would flicker from the Witches passing by, eager to sober up in the comfort of their beds to the streams of colorful smoke rising up from the tip of his blunt. Eagerly, would the strands reach up towards the twinkling night sky, desperate to reach the kiss of the evening stars that were saying their goodbyes before the orange dawn fire consumed them yet again.

Perhaps he could locate where Reva was currently staying for the time being and crash for an hour or two at her place… Micah flicked what remained of his smoke onto the pavement where it snuffed out with a weak hiss under the sole of his barely laced combat boot. He didn’t need anything more than just a safe moment to close his eyes, the world was constantly moving too fast for him to settle down for much longer.

‿︵‿︵ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ・❉・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ‿︵‿︵

Napping became a pastime he didn’t think others still partook in. The event was done suddenly. Though unspoken about to others outside these gray, dim walls, Micah recalls the sudden feeling of Asya’s head falling onto his shoulder while the movie in question that they were supposed to watch remained playing in the background.

At first, his head had snapped up from the screen of his phone, the brightness much too bright for his eyes to handle for an extended period of time. For a moment he thought: Great, now Kier is upset for me pulling out my phone and his jab at my shoulder is his way to put it away.

But Asya’s typical glare of disappointment — a look Micah had grown much too used to over the few years that he’d blow a kiss to in response, furtherning Asya’s displeased frown and Micah’s amusement — was nowhere to be found the moment Micah turned to look at the other Witch. Instead, in its place, was Asya’s sleeping face smoothed out of all worried and angry lines that constantly seemed to be etched as Asya’s only permanent expression.

“Oh, my…” Quinn’s hushed voice replaced the voices of the film that kept playing, the screen now showing bolded, green words signaling that the sound had been muted. “Well, it is his first day back after being gone for a week. Surely, he must have been exhausted.”

“He could’ve told us, we could have moved this to another day,” Micah sighed.

“There’s no use being upset over it now, darling, shall we let him properly lay down onto the cushions and head out for the day ourselves? It is getting rather late.”

“Do you need me to walk you home?” It won’t be something that’s talked about the next day, the way Micah gently supported Asya and settled his sleeping body onto the couch comfortably with a thin blanket draped over him, carefully tucked to secure it won’t fall off if Asya were to shuffle about in his sleep. Asya would pin the action on Quinn and Micah would let him believe it, “At least let me get you a ride that can take you home.”

“Where would that leave you, dear?”

There’s a contrast in the soft sound of Quinn’s long skirt brushing against the hardwood floor and Micah’s boots making it creak under every step they took towards the door. One last look over their shoulders to ensure Asya’s much needed slumber, and they escorted themselves both out, making sure the door was securely locked before descending down the building’s staircase.

“I can just take a walk. Doubt I’ll be sleeping anytime soon anyways,” Micah thumbed away at his phone to set a location marker for a car to arrive and escort Quinn home to the furthest part of town where the trees began to take over the city life and nature was her next door neighbor.

“Even a flower turns down its petals when the sun is no longer hanging above the horizon,” Quinn’s fingers are soft against the skin of his freckled cheek, the tone of her pale hand is a stark contrast against his tanned skin as she draws his attention towards her. “They’re so visible, it is almost as if you have the darkness of the night sky right beneath your own eyes.”

“Is this your own way of telling me that I have dark circles under my eyes?”

Her smile is coy, there’s a hint of mischief underlying right beneath it, and Micah laughs to himself at the sight.

“I’ll be fine, Quinn. Been living like this for years, I’d like to think of my dark circles as a fashion statement at this point. Call it a look, if you will.”

“Get some sleep, Micah,” Quinn’s hand pulls away from his face when the car arrives to escort her home, “Even you can find some peace in a moment's rest.”

��︵‿︵ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ・❉・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ‿︵‿︵

Micah never thought peace would come fully from the company of another. He doesn’t recall when it first started, call it one of those cheesy moments found in movies where the main protagonist realizes they were in love with their best friend the entire time, they just never realized when. Except instead of love, it comes in the form of sleep.

“Do you know how long you’ll be gone this time?” Micah wraps a single dreadlock laced with golden rings around the expanse of his index finger, he doesn’t need to look up or pull his head away from where it was nestled on Nameless’ shoulder to know that he’s being watched as he plays with the other Witch’s long hair. “Last time you said it would be a few days, but you were gone two weeks.”

There’s a pout to his voice that becomes visible on his face when he feels Nameless shrug, “Time passes differently where I’m at.”

“Then work faster,” Micah retorts a solution that he knows is illogical, “Do you know how lame it is to pass out when you’re gone? You’d think all these cushions you got on this bed would be comfortable enough to sleep with no problem.”

“I’m not your pillow, kid.”

“Should’ve thought about that before you started letting me sleep on you,” Micah unlaces the long lock of hair from his finger, allowing it to drop back into place. “Are you done with your smoke yet?”

He shuffles around in Nameless’ lap, the only show of annoyance from Nameless at Micah’s current squirming around being a brief grunt that’s lost in the fabric of his mask. Now straddling the other Witch, Micah slips his arms underneath Nameless’ where they wrap around his waist and his face buries itself into the crook of his neck.

“Just lay down when you’re done smoking,” Micah’s voice comes out in a soft murmur laced with sleep. Like a butterfly kiss, his lashes brush against the skin of Nameless’ neck once as they come to a close and Micah sighs in content, “I’m gonna sneak in one last nap before you ditch me for a month.”

His only response is an arm wrapping around his waist.

‿︵‿︵ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ・❉・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ‿︵‿︵

Micah wonders how much of a drug exhaustion can pass off for. If he were to perform an action that could be seen out of place, would he be able to simply blame it on the lack of sleep that he's had for a week now?

His body feels much too heavy and his eyelids even heavier, there’s a pleasant soreness covering him like a second blanket underneath the thick sheet sleep has over him already. It’s silly, really, the way his body feels as if it’s been put through the process of a hook up much more vigorous than it really was. Could this still even be called a hookup? Taking a moment to ponder the question feels like dangerous territory, territory Micah isn’t ready to voice and pull Nameless into with him just yet.

So, Micah instead focuses on the trailing of his fingers on Nameless’ collarbones, the shape of them peeking out through a now slightly stretched out shirt collar that Micah had tugged at ten minutes prior to sink his teeth into and muffle out his cries.

“Ain’t you supposed to be sleepin’?”

“You have a small mole here,” Micah speaks up in response, disregarding the comment about sleep. No, sleep wasn’t what he wanted just yet despite his body’s protest and for once, his heart and mind went hand in hand with wanting to engrave this moment being shared in the darkness of the room. “Did you know that? Don’t really get to see much beauty marks on you.”

Shuffling, Micah was always shuffling in Nameless’ arms as if trying to get away when in reality, Micah was always looking for ways to be even closer. His chin lifts up from Nameless’ chest and his body squirms upwards, before he could even be questioned or berated about it, his lips come down onto the newly discovered mole that captured his fascination tonight.

“Saps say that marks appear on your skin in the next life from wherever you were kissed the most in your previous life,” Micah pulls away from the kissed spot. “Makes you wonder if shit like that is true or not.”

Do you think I can test it out on you? Do you think I can show that at some point, you were mine? Could you be mine?

The words die out in his throat when he hears a snort from Nameless, and the funeral of them are buried instead on the expanse of Nameless’ neck and start of his chest. More shuffling, and freckled hands slip into Nameless’ shirt from beneath the covers and grip onto his waist.

“Go to sleep, Forst.”

Straddling, Micah was also always straddling.

There would never be a time where a sigh of exasperation wouldn’t slip past his lips when he’d have to wash both of their clothes from an ever growing pile that had doubled in size drastically the moment they entered the stage in their lives where hands couldn’t be kept to themselves.

“You never complain when it’s happening,” Nameless would always say.

“You’re not the one doing the laundry,” Micah would always sigh.

But Micah knew he was right, he never complained, he wasn’t about to start now. Sleep, Nameless had told him. Sleep, his body agreed in response.

“In a bit…” Micah replied to both, his head tipping upwards to bump his nose against Nameless’ clothed jawline, always out of Micah’s sight, always out of reach of his lips. “If you’re tired, then… you could always put me to sleep yourself,” the challenge came out in a breathless moan emphasized by the feeling of Micah’s nails digging into Nameless’ side with a roll of his hips.

“You have no fill, do you?” Micah’s lips twitched upwards into a small smile he hid from Nameless’ eyes when rough hands gripped strongly onto his hips, pausing his movements.

There’s a much too cheery tone in Micah’s voice for someone who was on the edge of unconsciousness a moment ago as the hand buried inside of Nameless’ shirt begins to tug the fabric upwards to reveal more skin Micah sets his eyes on the moment he sits up with another teasing grind of his hips.

Though his body was exhausted, though his head felt stuffed with cotton and his eyes glazed over like crystallized sugar, Micah peppered kisses all over the trail he had placed with his lips prior with new spots being added on the bigger canvas of skin he had to work with now. No, he wasn’t solely after the second round of sex that would later involve another change of clothes and sleeping until one in the afternoon. He simply sought out a reason, an excuse to be allowed to kiss and touch in places he was much too scared to ask for casually just yet.

And though the moment only lasts for a few minutes before his back is hitting the mattress and his mouth is unlatched from Nameless’ chest, Micah simply takes the change in position to trail his lips on his shoulders and much later, when he can no longer keep his eyes awake and they’re glued shut, will he then take advantage of the concept of exhaustion once more to leave kisses on the crown of Nameless head.

He can only hope that in the next life, whenever that may be, his kisses live on through marks found scattered on Nameless’ skin.

‿︵‿︵ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ・❉・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ‿︵‿︵

He cries more than he ever has in his life during their first months together. The tears feel endless, like waterfalls cascading down his cheeks that would be useful in watering his flowers if they were still present on his cheek, or the curve of his jaw.

Nameless kisses them away every time. Micah has lost track of how many times he’s given his head a brief shake as apologies are whispered against his skin, he’s lost track of how many things they’ve both apologized for, the wounds are still too fresh for both of them to keep backtracking to constantly just yet.

He sleeps more than he ever has in his life during those months, too. Once upon a time, Micah would stay awake for hours to watch the way the stars would shine down and the moon would glow throughout the night. And when the sun would rise, Micah would simply close his eyes for a few hours before he’s going on his way yet again to prepare for another night falling in love with the sky that seemed endless and made him feel free.

Now, Micah spends the night tracing the curve of Nameless’ cheekbones with the tip of his fingers. His touch is soft in his fear of ruining the moment, his eyes swallow up with greed every little detail of the face no longer shielded by a piece of black cloth. From the arch of Nameless’ eyebrow, to the dip of the cupid’s bow above his upper lip, Micah drinks it all up with love dripping from his touch.

“You’re doin’ a lot of staring.”

“Not my fault you chose to hide your face from me for years. Gotta take it all in.”

Micah meets Nameless’ eyes with a grin the moment they flutter open, and when he’s given a smile in response, Micah feels his heart swell to the brink of exploding.

“You’re breathtaking,” The words are genuine, Micah isn’t entirely sure if the sudden heat is from his flushed skin as he speaks them, or from Nameless. It doesn’t matter, the night is pure bliss and he’s not ready to lose it to sleep just yet, that could be saved for when the sun rises and they’re both tangled together sleeping the day away. Pressing his lips against Nameless’, his words carry on in a murmur, “Tell me how I got so lucky.”

“You really consider yourself lucky, little flower?”

“Yes.”

Micah’s sudden frown is a warning to Nameless at this point, one that dares him to look for any sign of regret Micah could have over the course of pain and arguments they’ve been through, over the lack of flowers that no longer adorn his skin the way they used to. Nameless never finds any.

“I love you,” He presses a kiss to Nameless’ left eyelid. “I wouldn’t trade this for the world,” Another kiss upon Nameless’ right eyelid now, “I just need you.”

The kiss pecked onto Nameless’ lips drowns out in a sudden yawn against his lips that makes Micah flush and Nameless laugh.

“Go to sleep, Micah.”

Always, the suggestion of sleep swaying in and out of his life like ocean waves. Micah’s lost track of how many times he’s been urged to rest. He’s lost track of how much sleep he lost during the years he spent away from Nameless’ side before he met the other Witch and after.

He’s tempted to refuse, there’s a panic that’s still nestled in his ribs that makes him feel like all of this is still a dream and when he wakes up, he’ll be rising from some cheap motel bed within an empty room he had to book alone for the night while he remained without a permanent home.

“Sleep with me,” He calls out, his head resting on Nameless’ chest where he can now hear a steady heartbeat singing a lullaby in the shape of his name.

And when Micah feels the familiar act of Nameless’ arms wrapping around his waist and running his fingers up and down Micah’s back, Micah knows that it won’t take long until Nameless also falls unconscious. And Micah knows that they’ll be alright now, they can finally rest.

[skinnedhearts]

uprooted

Asya could just barely count the number of years he’s known Neirin within the span of his two hands. In retrospect, with all those years, Asya wanted to feel confident in admitting that when asked, he could say he knew Neirin pretty well.

“I didn’t know that you two were acquainted with each other,” Neirin had pressed the rim of his tea cup to his lips in thought — an action Asya was well aware of knowing that it was one Neirin would do when the wheels in his head were turning, when satisfied with a thought he wanted to speak out, Neirin would then press the tip of his fingers onto the frame of his glasses and push upwards. “You never spoke of him, and him never of you. So, color me surprised when I bring him over for lunch and your reaction was… well that.”

“When did you two even meet?” Asya had frowned, completely disregarding the majority of Neirin’s comments. “When you said you had started seeing someone, he was the last one I expected to walk in and see with you. He’s not even your…”

Asya’s sentence trailed off midway, his frown only seemingly getting deeper much to Neirin’s amazement.

With a brow arched, Neirin sighed, “Pray tell? Were you perhaps aiming to say that he was not my type? I wasn’t quite aware that it was something you paid attention to.”

A moment of silence stretched between the two, the buzzling of Tea’s inn filling the temporary uncomfortable gap that was snapped in half by another one of Neirin’s sighs, “I met him when he was very injured. Similarly to how I met you, actually. I simply took it upon myself to heal him and tend to his wounds, I wasn’t expecting anything to happen… it just did.”

He’s going to break your heart, Asya had bit down his bottom lip at the thought because perhaps he could’ve been wrong. Perhaps Micah would find himself also unexpectedly surprised to find himself falling in love with someone as composed as Neirin who could steer him clear of all warning signs Micah seemed to avoid in life, and in return, Micah could give Neirin a taste of freedom away from the life where his nose had to be buried in a book at all times.

The image of Wamu’s grinning face crossed Asya’s mind, and Asya felt a pang of pity. He wished it could have been his dreaming friend instead.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Asya also wanted to think that he was pretty confident as to how much he knew Micah as well. Though his years in knowing the other Witch were smaller, his knowledge felt a lot bigger than the span of years that were shared between the two.

“If you’re not going to be serious with him, then break up.” Asya had crossed his arms, beneath the surface of the table did his leg shake in an attempt to keep his frustration towards the situation composed. Micah pretended not to see the way the table shook, and Asya felt Quinn’s delicate hand rest on top of his clenched fist in response. “You two haven’t been dating for that long and you obviously didn’t hesitate to follow after someone you shouldn’t anymore the first chance you got.”

“It’s been months since he was gone and I haven’t seen him as much as you think I would have by now since he’s returned,” There was an edge to Micah’s voice that was dripping in defense. “How ‘bout you get off my ass over something that shouldn’t concern you, Kier. You don’t even know shit ‘bout how much Neirin matters to me or the peace I’ve made over blowing what I had with Nameless.”

Asya and Micah didn’t fight. Though their relationship from an outsider's perspective would paint the image of Micah having no respect for Asya and Asya not tolerating Micah’s entire existence, Micah and Asya did not fight.

“Perhaps it is best that we allow events to steer their course,” Quinn’s suggestion was soft spoken after Micah’s frustrated departure, there was a fragile atmosphere left behind in the room that she was much too cautious to shatter. “Neirin is rather smart, we can only wait it out along the ticking clock for one or the other to open their eyes, darling. They are grown witches, after all.”

At the time, Asya’s only response had been an exhausted sigh.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Now, leaning against the metal rail of Micah’s balcony where the metal would leave an indented print within his forearms, Asya came to terms with the fact that perhaps he didn’t know anything as well as he thought he did.

“Why did you do it?” The cigar resting between Asya’s lips is halfway done, later on when he makes his way home will Sylvee cross his arms with a pout over the smell clinging to Asya’s jacket and the broken promise in which he swore to never pick one up again for the sake of his well being. “Your wedding is a month away, you know this, right?”

Silence is Asya’s only response for the second time over the course of the half hour he’s been here. When first arrived, Asya had taken the liberty to allow himself in with the spare key Micah had given him about two years ago. It was rarely used, in fact, this was probably the first time that Asya had ever used it at all though it would have remained untouched if it weren’t for the urgent situation at hand.

(“He was covered in thorns and bleeding,” Neirin’s voice was quiet from his end of the call when he had rung up at two in the morning, much to Asya’s dismay and heavy eyes, the sleep still clung to his eyelashes like weights urging his eyelids to close. “I’ve never seen him like that. I came home to him wiping a bloody needle on a napkin covered in seeds.”

There’s a sleepy murmur and an even sleepier hand tugging at Asya’s sweatpants in question over who it was on the phone. With a kiss to Sylvee’s forehead, Asya ushered him back to sleep because even the sun needed its rest before it got ready to shine for another day.

“His thorns hurt him when they wrap around him,” Asya eased out of bed where Snow���s head lifted in question from her spot on the foot of the bed. When receiving her own affection in the form of a gentle scratch behind her ears, did she purr in response and make her way towards Asya’s spot next to a once again sleeping Sylvee. “They also pop out when he’s extremely upset. Did he tell you anything at all? Did he say anything about the seeds?”

“No… He barely spoke to me while I was patching him up.” Neirin’s exhaustion was as heavy as his concern, perhaps he was reaching a breaking point himself. Asya could only hope as much that a change was to come before the end of this month. “I didn’t know what to do, so I just healed him and he’s been asleep since then.”

“Get some rest, Neirin.” Was the best Asya could offer to his friend, “I’ll check on him tomorrow, so just leave it to me.”)

“What were you expecting to achieve from going to his house? Did you think that by some miracle you’d find something different there?”

Asya’s frustration is a little more prominent the longer he carried on this one sided conversation. With more force than he needed to, he snuffed out the cigar with a squeal of protest from the tip of it over the fact that it was uncompleted.

“Micah, you surely cannot be this stupid. It’s been more than a damn year since you’ve been back and forth with this, what the hell are you thinking?”

“Are you done?” Micah’s voice rings sharp enough to slice through a person, it’s the first words he’s uttered over the course of an entire day and a half. “Yeah, I get it already, I’m an idiot. Yeah, I’m stupid! I’m the biggest fucking dumbass there is who still went off to the house of some shitty Witch one last time because guess what!? I’m also still so ridiculously in love with him! Is that what you’ve been wanting me to say from the start, Kier? Is that what you’ve been wanting me to admit so you could call me stupid over falling in love with some asshole and being unable to stop thinking of him!?”

Asya can only watch the strain Micah’s hair goes through when he runs his fingers through his hair in frustration and the thorns claw away at Micah’s hands and tug back on the strands of hair tangled with the sharp, wooden vines.

“He already told me he never gave a shit about me…” There’s a visible ache to Micah’s voice. At the sound of it, Asya isn’t sure if he wants to berate him further or wrap an arm around his shoulders. “I know I was stupid enough to hold on to hope that maybe he could love me back, that maybe before it was time for me to give him up for good… something would work out last minute between us.”

“... This isn’t the way to do it, Micah. This hasn’t been the way to do it from the start.” Asya settles on crossing his arms, he decides that despite Micah’s pain the best he could offer him was a talk instead of any form of physical comfort. The scabs resting on Micah’s cheek make him look away, Asya truly hated this. “I told you to break up with Neirin. I told you to speak up where you needed to instead — even if you got shot down. But what did you do in response? You ignored literally every bit of advice I could have offered you, as well as everyone else who tried talking to you, and forced a good handful of us into uncomfortable situations.”

Silence once again is Asya’s only response warranting a frustrated sigh and the tip of his fingers pressing roughly against the bridge of his nose, “You can’t marry him anymore, Micah. You’ve said it yourself, you’re still in love with another and that’s not right for Neirin. You can’t keep being with someone you don’t love.”

“I do love him.”

Micah scratched away at another scab located on his forearm, the dried blood clinging to his skin chipping off and spilling over to reveal a hole too deep. In an instant, blood poured over the cut and buried itself underneath Micah’s nails. Asya takes the moment to walk over and kneel down next to him, his hand taking hold of Micah’s wrist in order to pull his hand away, and urge him with tired eyes to keep talking.

“But not in the way that I should,” Micah continues.

“You love him,” Asya repeats, and Micah nods. “But you’re not in love with him.”

“No.” 

With one simple word, Asya feels the knot in his stomach unwind over the course of months that it has been there, making him sick with frustration, and worry, and tearing him from the inside out in two over the limbo in which he kept watching Micah and Neirin head down two different paths when one thought the other was following.

“I still can’t cancel the wedding…”

Asya’s breath of relief jams itself in his throat, his hold on Micah’s wrist tightens in response to the statement. He opens his mouth, but whatever protest Asya was ready to berate Micah with and enter another limbo of disagreement gets cut off the moment Neirin’s voice carries across the house and reaches them.

“Micah, have you been on the balcony all day?” Neirin’s head peeks out from behind the curtains that separated the inside of the house and the outside, his eyes widening behind the frame of his glasses in surprise over Asya’s kneeling form staring back at him and Micah’s gaze directed away from the both of them, “Hey, I would’ve thought you were home by now from your visit.”

“I had to stop a little later than planned,” Asya’s answers, the exhaustion on his face earning him a small, sympathetic smile from Neirin in silent understanding. “I’ll get out of your hair now, though. I need some fresh air anyways.”

Oh, but haven’t the two of you been out here the entire time? Neirin wants to speak up, but a quick glance at Micah continuously refusing to acknowledge both of their presence makes Neirin conclude that it was for the best to give Asya a break from whatever was going on before he arrived home.

“Give Sylvee my regards when you head home,” he followed Asya towards the front door. With Asya’s hand pausing on the door knob, Neirin tilted his head to the side to give him a moment and gather what it was that his friend wanted to say. Though, there was truly no need for Asya to speak of any advice he wished to give Neirin, it was in the course of last night that Neirin had already come up with his own conclusion as to what he had to do next. “It’s alright, Kier. You just head home, I’ll take care of things here.”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

“Did I ever tell you that when I first met you, I thought you were a blonde?”

The first sign of emotion crosses Micah’s face at Neirin’s comment, and Neirin resists the urge to smile up at him as his hands focus on his aura around Micah’s arm — there’s a small ache he can’t help but feel at all the cuts that appeared overnight.

“I don’t think I quite knew that your hair was green until Asya made a big deal over how I described you as blonde with equally golden eyes the first time I spoke of you to him.” Though the cuts heal from the outside, Neirin can still feel little gaps in Micah’s aura. He guesses it’s because of the seeds he caught sight of buried underneath a pile of bloody tissues — the smell of rusted iron had lifted up towards his nose the moment he removed the trash can lid off to deposit the soiled bandages that had been wrapped around Micah’s other arm. “I suppose there’s a lot we failed to properly know of each other before we started dating.”

“...Where are you going with this?”

Neirin’s lips draw into a thin line. Though the illogical side of him wishes to backtrack and laugh it off as nothing more than a walk down memory lane, a simple attempt and nothing more to get Micah to talk to him and cut to an end his streak of silence, Neirin’s logical side rules out the thought as quick as it comes.

“You don’t want to marry me, Micah.” Neirin glances up, and Micah flinches away, “Maybe you didn’t even want to be with me from the start.”

“Why are you doing this…?”

“I think it’s best that we do the healthiest thing for each other, and let one another go. I can’t keep chasing after you, if you keep refusing me, and maybe that was a sign that it was never meant to be,” Neirin’s hands pull away from Micah and the usual spin to his head after healing takes over him. It’s habit by now to reach over to the coffee table in front of them where a potted plant rests, where Neirin will gently touch the soil and the green plant resting within it will wither and die in exchange for his body to cleanse from its healing, “We’re much too different… The both of us. And though there is nothing wrong with not being similar, our difference only creates more strain instead of harmony.”

“You’ve had all this time to tell me all of this and you’re just letting me know now.” Bitterness in Micah’s voice was to be expected, it was so sharp, Neirin felt as if he could taste it on the roof of his mouth.

“We’re both at fault.”

“... I tried…”

“I know.”

“But it wasn’t enough.”

“No, I’m afraid it wasn’t.”

Micah pulled away farther from him and Neirin allowed him to. It was not in his place anymore to pour himself into comforting the Witch that was not seeking out his comfort. Though Neirin’s heart ached and was still full of love for the plant Witch in front of him that had withered the same way his plants did when Neirin would cleanse himself on them, he knew it was for the best to cut things off before they were both stuck in an unbalanced marriage where eventually they would grow to resent each other beyond repair.

“I will let all the invited guests know, you don’t have to worry over that.” Neirin kept speaking, his forearms coming to rest on his thighs in thought as his hands clasped together, “And I’ll start packing up my things to move back home with Tea. I’ll do my best to be quick so you won’t have me in your hair for too long.”

With every word, Neirin could only watch from the corner of his eye as Micah drew his legs up against his chest and wrapped his arms around them, face burying deep in his knees as more thorns sprouted around his body.

“I’ll keep healing you until it is my last day before moving out,” Neirin sighed, and the thorns grew slightly in size. “But afterwards, you must get some help, Micah.”

“I’m done talking about this.” Micah’s voice is muffled, “Do whatever you want. We’re done here.”

An attitude Neirin had more or less expected, one he’s seen times in the past whenever he would enter arguments with Micah in which they would discuss his status with the demonic Witch that had proved to hold a stronger tie towards Micah than Neirin had anticipated.

“Just one more thing,” Neirin chimed in after he had gathered all the first aid supplies and settled them back into the kit, “When I leave your home, I think it’s best if we also cut contact with each other. I’ll send Asya and Quinn to look after you once I’m gone, but I hope you understand it’s for the best that I keep my space away from you after everything that has happened.”

Silence is his only response, and Neirin sighs in understanding. From the outside of Micah’s house, thorned vines sprout outwards from the ground and begin to crawl against the outer walls.

[skinnedhearts]

decayed

Micah filled empty spaces with plants.

The first time Neirin stood outside Micah’s house, the thought of what lay beyond the wooden door covered in vines was the farthest thing in his mind. The palms of his hands are sweaty, and there’s a loud ringing in his ears that rivals the sound of his heartbeat pulsing all over his body.

“Sorry ‘bout any mess you find inside,” Micah stumbled with inserting the key into his doorknob and when the small click of the deadbolt unlocking reached both of their ears, Neirin could feel a flush to his cheeks when Micah cast a rather… nervous, almost bashful look over his shoulder back at him.

Surprising, but cute...

With the door now wide open, Neirin follows Micah inside and the first thing that drowns his vision is a sea of faded yellow. He ponders to himself that perhaps to another with eyes that worked properly, they would see a sea of green instead of what a faded sunset would look like if it was sucked of all its hues of bright yellow, orange, and red. The occasional flower stands out, the bloom drenched in a color that Neirin can distinguish.

“I can’t say this is how I imagined your house to be,” He speaks up when he feels Micah’s eyes observing his every move.

“Am I supposed to be offended?”

“No, no,” Neirin laughs, his fingers delicately grazing the petals of a potted plant resting within a clay bowl painted with waves wrapping around the base of it, “It’s completely covered in plants and yet… it also feels well organized.”

“I know I’m a bit of a mess, but that ain’t mean that I’m fond of a mess in my place.”

His glance flickers away from the rest of the tiny garden to Micah’s stance. There’s a tilt of Neirin’s head when he notices the uneasy way in which Micah shifts his weight from one foot to another, his arms wrapping around himself instead of crossing at his chest.

“I don’t think you’re a mess,” Closing the space between the two of them, Neirin gently cups Micah’s face in his hands, his thumbs stroking small circles on the curve of Micah’s cheeks — from underneath the pad of his thumbs, constellations made out of freckles peek up at him. “If it counts for anything,” Neirin feels his heart in his throat when Micah’s eyelashes kiss the curve of his cheek and open once more to reveal a lonesome sadness dripped in gold, “I think you’re fine the way you are.”

His only response is a kiss to the palm of his hand and a muffled sigh that feels like scattered sand.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Micah decorates with flowers.

Lilies on the coffee table. White and yellow chrysanthemums on the dresser by the bed. Yellow roses on the kitchen counters.

“Do any of these have any meanings behind them?” Neirin strokes at the Scorpion Grasses laced within Micah’s curls.

“What do you mean?” Micah peeks up at him from the spot where his head rests on Neirin’s chest, his big golden eyes peeking through thick lashes and the rim of Neirin’s glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

(”So, what do you think?” Micah had shifted as he struck a pose, the action earning a small grunt from Neirin at the shuffling of the Witch sitting on top of him — around Micah’s waist, did the white sheets drape loosely. It takes Micah’s voice ringing out once more to snap Neirin’s gaze away from the freckles trailing down sunkissed skin. “I think it’s a rather good look on me, don’t you?”

“What is?” Though Micah’s image has a small blur to it, Neirin can still make out his stolen glasses resting on the face of his thieving boyfriend. “I'm sorry, my bloom, but I’m afraid I can’t see what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, ha, ha.” Micah had stuck his tongue out at him in response, and Neirin took a chance to laugh at the sight and tug him down. “Just for that,” Micah snuck the words in between the press of their lips, “you’re not getting your glasses back now.”)

“Flowers have a language of their own. Throughout time, humans would create bouquets to send one another messages through specific types of flowers that varied in species and color depending on the mood they were trying to convey to the other person.” Micah continues to blink up at him, and Neirin chuckles, “So, I was wondering if the flowers that appear on you mean anything depending on your mood, as well as the ones you decorate the house with.”

“Never really thought any of it was that deep.” Micah had shrugged in response, “I just let them come as they please.”

On the apple of his cheek, Neirin watches another baby blue Scorpion Grass bloom.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Micah has a favorite flower.

Neirin spots it on the centerpiece of every bouquet, on the corner of every room, on the vases that once provided a home to different types of blooms. He doesn’t recall ever seeing it in the past, he doesn’t recall ever seeing it in any textbooks or uniquely breeded gardens.

“Have you ever seen it anywhere else?” He twirled the flower by its stem before delicately placing it down on Tea’s desk, “I’ve searched everywhere without a single clue to what this flower could possibly be. It doesn’t even trace back to any ancient flower that could have evolved over time to a current flower that exists now.”

“Ah, I see you’ve met the infamous little flower,” Something flickers in Tea’s eyes, gone just as quick as it appeared, much too fast for Neirin to register what the emotion could have been. “I’m afraid I don’t have the answers you were hoping to achieve, my curious bookworm. This flower has been a mystery even to me, and if you’ve contemplated asking your dearest flower petal about it, he doesn’t hold any answers to it either.”

Neirin’s lips draw into a thin line, and a sigh exhales through his nose as he takes the moment to sit down on the chair in front of Tea’s desk in defeat, “I’ve already asked him, so I already know he’s not sure about the flower either.”

“Tell me, why the sudden curiosity?” Tea leans forward onto his desk, elbows resting on the surface and fingers lacing together where his chin comes down to rest on top of his clasped hands, “I was not aware that his flowers held such an interest and warranted an intense research in order to seek out their origin.”

Just simple curiosity, Neirin wanted to brush the inquiries off with a wave of his hand. From the pit of his stomach, deep down below, the steady growing knot twists with feelings of uneasiness, distaste, and… jealousy.

He doesn’t want to speak about the way he sees Micah bloom the flower whenever he’s around the demonic Witch that had left a sour taste in the roof of Neirin’s mouth the day he first met Nameless. He doesn’t want to bring into the forefront of his mind the way Nameless would brush a simple strand of Micah’s hair behind his ear and Micah would flush through the crimson flowers — the color of the plant revealed to him after Asya had pointed out how it was not, in fact, a muddy brown — that would overfill the crown of Micah’s head and scatter down his body. He doesn’t want to give importance into the way his mind would race with ridiculous thoughts when he’d observe Micah from across the room, pluck the flower that would suddenly appear and stroke it with such delicacy and dare Neirin think it… love.

(“What’s the relationship between the two of you?” There was a frustration hanging off from Micah’s shoulders, he wore it like a cape trailing behind his every step. At his question, Neirin watches the imaginary fabric increase in weight and add tension to Micah’s shoulders.

“What do you mean?” Somewhere from outside the house, a tree branch scrapes frantically against the window, filling the brief silence.

“It just seems as if there is more to you two than just friends, if it is even appropriate to call you that.” Micah has a tendency to avoid serious subjects at hand by preoccupying himself with silly, mundane tasks; Neirin makes sure to reach over across the table and take both of Micah’s hands in his, “Is there something you need to tell me?”

“It’s not that deep,” On its cue, the unnamed flower peeks through the curls of green. A scoff jams in Neirin’s throat, how fitting for the flower with no name to bloom at the mention of the Witch who holds none either. “We used to hook up, but there was never anything official to us. Labels weren’t a big deal, call it a cliche no strings agreement.”

“... Did either of you get romantically attached?” Petals begin to overflow off Micah’s head at the question, from within Neirin’s hands, he feels Micah’s defensive nature kick in, he feels the brief attempt of Micah’s hands pull away an inch. “Did you have any feelings for him?”

Neirin feels as if the seconds between them stretch outwards towards the horizon when the question drops from the tip of his tongue and lands onto the ground with the weight of a kilogram. It’s figurative, but the question truly feels as if it has crashed through the wooden table and split the furniture into two, at their feet do splintered pieces of wood lay between the two of them — an omen, perhaps, of what’s to come of their relationship.

“I’m with you now.”

That doesn’t answer the question, Neirin wishes to retort, but doing so means Micah pulling away and leaving him alone to patch up the shattered remains of the kitchen furniture all alone, doing so means letting go of the plant Witch that had stumbled into his life a broken mess and looked the other way when Neirin had felt traces of saltwater trail down Micah’s face the first time they kissed.

Instead, Neirin gives a simple nod to his head and opens his mouth, “I know.” And the statement feels like sea glass scraping down his throat.)

“I just wanted to know,” His hand feels callous as it drags down his face. He’s been much too tired lately, he wonders if it’s possible for the weight of one’s heart to shift into a different feeling when once, love felt as if it was the only possible emotion that could overfill it and leave room for nothing more. “If you find out something,” Neirin rises from his seat and avoids Tea’s eyes, afraid of the confirmation he would find resting within the grey irises of the most knowledgeable Witch — besides Cake — that he knows, “Please do inform me right away.”

His hand rests briefly on the door frame on his way out, and he speaks once more over his shoulder, “It’s his favorite flower, and I’d like to be the one to give it to him.”

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

There’s a lack of space in Micah’s home when Neirin finishes up packing the last of his things. At first, he thinks it is simply due to the fact that his endless lines of books no longer filled the empty sections between Micah’s plants.

(“Can’t believe you’re making me rearrange all of my kids just to make room for your nerdy stuff,” Neirin could feel the whine vibrate through the expanse of Micah’s neck beneath every press of his lips to the skin, at the curve that connected Micah’s neck to his right left shoulder, a sigh breezes out similar to the one blowing in through the open window.

“I promise it is not a lot,” His arms tightened around Micah’s waist, and his only response was a thoughtful hum.)

“Is that all?”

Uneasiness was an emotion much too similar to Neirin at this point, and though he was well on his way out of the place he had called home for over a year, he couldn’t help the nagging feeling that perhaps he was taking too much with him when the interior once felt like a well composed forest with just the right amount filling every spot of the room.

“You still have a few small boxes in the room,” The sound of Micah’s voice resembled sandpaper, the use of it very limited over the course of the last few days that Neirin would stop by and spend hours here. His knuckles would rap against the door much too covered in vines before entering every day instead of unlocking it, the key to this house no longer in his possession out of respect of his relationship with Micah having come to an end. “Other than that, you’ve gathered everything.”

Neirin’s eyes flicker from the stack of boxes to Micah leaning against the doorway of the room in question where the last of his things remained. There’s something fragile and thin about Micah’s appearance, to Neirin’s eyes, the sight of the Witch in front of him feels hollowed out; empty of the Witch that Neirin first met and eventually fell in love with. He thinks it's the oversized hoodie resting on Micah’s form, and when Micah tugs it up to his nose with a close of his eyes, Neirin looks the other way.

“Is there anything you need me to take out with me on my way out?”

“The black bags by the door,” Micah’s answer is instant, his next words trailing out small and soft, “If you can… please.”

It’s the last that Neirin sees Micah for the day, after the first two black bags are taken out and placed by the outdoor garbage bin, Neirin returns inside to find the small boxes containing the last of his things now set out with the rest, and the door to Micah’s room closed shut. Perhaps it’s for the best, Neirin rubs at his eyes from beneath the frame of his glasses. The atmosphere between the two of them was still too raw and fragile to pretend that things were ending on fully amicable terms. Neirin estimates the amount of time it will take for him to gather all his belongings with Asya’s help, and his eyes land once more on the two remaining black bags resting by the door.

Digging through Micah’s trash isn’t his personal business anymore. Not to state that Neirin ever did so in the first place, but the nagging of the empty house digs deeper into his mind the more he lingers within the walls. It’s hesitant, but his hands still undo the knot tying the bag shut, and the smell of rusted iron blending unpleasantly with soil and uprooted plants overtakes his entire sense of smell.

Micah doesn’t throw away his plants, no one needed to be an ex lover to know that the statement was a solid fact. And when Neirin paws at and moves around the contents of the bag with a crease to his brow, does he find a single familiar flower drenched in blood peeking right up at him, the flower barely recognizable and once again unknown.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

His house is bare by the time Neirin takes his last visit to check in on Micah.

Technically, it was no longer his responsibility to ensure Micah’s own wellbeing and confirm that he was taking care of himself. Neirin had his own wounds to heal, he had his own emotions to patch up, and he had his own wedding reservations and appointments to cancel — the entirety of it all further digging the sword into Neirin’s heart.

It was the concern of others that further spiked his own, it was the sound of Asya talking to Sylvee over the phone in regards to Micah that pulled him into walking up the cobblestone path that led towards Micah’s house. The outer walls of the home were wrapped around a thick coat of vines that were never there before, the sight of them containing more thorns than weaves of green leaves.

(“Sylvee is the only one that can walk in there easily,” Asya had pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “He locks me out as soon as Sylvee is through the door.”

“I did not think that the situation would only worsen, I had assumed that it would calm down once I was out of the house and you would take over checking in on him with Quinn.”

Conversations surround them, and the smell of coffee and tea drifts around the small shop down the street from Asya’s apartment. It’s a bright establishment, the commute walking by provides the shop enough business to keep it afloat. Despite the social air, Neirin knows Asya prefers to be having this conversation in the comfort of Tea’s inn.

“This doesn’t mean you need to take it upon yourself to go see how he’s doing. You two are done,” Harsh words that Asya won’t apologize for, Neirin hides the grimace on his face with a sip of his tea. “He’s not looking for company right now, Neirin. Just because he lets Sylvee in, doesn’t mean he gives Sylvee an easy time, at least not when Sylvee is trying to patch him up.”

“So, he is hurting himself…”

“Just focus on yourself,” Hot liquid once dark before being bombarded with cream and sugar rests untouched in the cup made out of carton, “That’s the best thing you can do right now.”)

Neirin isn’t sure what to expect when he places his hand on the doorknob and turns it, perhaps the most logical thought was that the door would be closed. Perhaps the most logical thought was that he, too, would be kicked out, maybe picked up by a vine wrapping around his ankle and thrown back down the cobblestone pathway because he no longer had any right to be here anymore. The last thing he was expecting was for the door to open. Yes, there was a bit of a struggle in pushing the door open with the force of his weight when he saw that it was unlocked, but it was nothing a shove couldn’t fix as he stumbled inside.

Eerie and silent is the best way that can describe the atmosphere of the house that once looked like it was permanently stuck with a sunset peeking through the forest walls. There’s a visible void of plants, the ones that still remained collapsed over their pots to signify their death, to showcase their camouflage against the brown soil they rested on, the dark, lifeless brown that now ate away at their leaves and color. From the cracks on the walls and drainage located in the kitchen sink and bathroom, Neirin can spot thorned vines crawling out of the disposals and poking holes through the wallpaper.

He checks every room, even if he knows Micah will most likely be in his room, he still checks every place to inspect the damage, to inspect the grave of the broken Witch no longer a shade of vibrant green.

“Micah,” A whisper, everything was much too fragile for Neirin to speak any louder, “I came to see how you were doing.” He pushes open the door cracked slightly ajar, from the other side, Neirin hears the snapping of vines.

On the center of the bed, sitting cross legged with the sleeves to that same oversized hoodie tugged up to his upper arms, rests Micah with thorns wrapped around his entire body, connecting him to the bed as if he sprouted up from the punctured mattress himself.

There’s no reaction nor response to Neirin the moment he steps a foot into the room. Once, long ago, when Micah had failed to register Neirin’s arrival to the house until he had sat stepped into the room, had Micah jerked his head up in surprise from the very same spot where he rested now. At the time, his hands had been caught up weaving together a flower crown composed of yellow carnations, the color dull compared to the brightness of Micah’s welcoming grin. Now, a shard of clay rested in Micah’s hand — there was no smile, there was no flowers, there was just the smell of blood and decayed blooms and plucked out seeds resting on Micah’s lap.

“Micah, that’s enough,” Neirin wastes no time seating himself at the foot of the bed, “You can’t keep doing this.” The sound of his voice goes unacknowledged, and Micah’s actions carry on — the tip of the shard digs into his skin where a new cut blooms in place of a flower, the sharp point merely digging in deeper and deeper with no reaction of pain, the entirety of it all working on mere autopilot. “I said that’s enough, Micah.”

Neirin grips Micah’s wrists with a strong hold, the strength of it pressuring out blood from different freshly made cuts that rested near Neirin’s hold. The liquid feels warm and thick, Neirin scrunches up his nose as it trails down into his hands and drips down onto Micah’s lap.

“You can’t keep doing this,” A whisper that sounds like the breeze, “You can’t keep tearing yourself down at the expense of another. Believe me,” the laugh is bitter, Neirin catches the way Micah bites down on his bottom lip, “”I know.”

Eyes that were glazed over like a thick layer of ice above a pond melt when Micah’s trance is broken, and those golden hues that once rivalved the beams of the sun spark once more with a life drowning in sadness. The emotion is enough to make Neirin’s own heartache double in size, and when Micah’s eyes begin to water, and big, heavy tears trail down his cheeks and plop onto the sheets to mix with the fresh and dry spots of blood, does Neirin hear the sound of Micah’s strained voice.

“I just want them to stop blooming,” The sentence is spoken in a barely distinguishable blubber, “I don’t know why they won't stop.”

“Why do you want them gone?”

“Because…” A teary sigh that gets caught in Micah’s throat due to his sobs, Neirin waits with bated breath for the next words to reaffirm what he already knew, “They make me think of him.”

Once again, like before when Neirin first tried to approach the topic, he speaks the words out calmly, “Did you have feelings for him?”

But unlike before, where Micah evaded the question with a statement Neirin didn’t ask about, he watches the answer roll off Micah’s tongue, “I still do.” His hands clench into fists, and Micah attempts with no success to tug himself free from Neirin’s hold, “I love him, I’ve been in love with him, and it hurts. I don’t want to feel this way towards him anymore, but it won’t stop.”

“I know.”

Micah gives up his attempts to pull away, and his need to dig something sharp into his skin dies down. In defeat, he collapses forward, his forehead pressing against Neirin’s shoulder. “How do you fall out of love and walk away,” Micah’s voice sounds as broken as they both feel, “Do you think you can teach me?”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

“If you find out how, do you think it’s selfish of me to ask you to teach me…”

“It is.”

“I’m sorry…” Micah’s breath is warm, Neirin can feel the drift of it caress his neck when Micah turns his head, “I shouldn’t have used you as a patch.”

In response, Neirin gives his wrists a gentle squeeze, and more blood surrounds them both.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

“You have to stop doing this.”

Micah doesn’t dwell in silence. Silence means that the thoughts hiding under his bed, in his closet, and behind the curtain of his windows get to slither out and fill his head with all the fears he chases away with the sound of others. Micah doesn’t dwell in silence, but he’s not looking for words of concern to fill the silence either.

“Micah,” Asya’s voice calls out to him again, and there’s a tight pressure on Micah’s knee from Asya gripping his leg with an urgency to get through to him, “You can’t keep tearing out your flowers. Quinn says you’re hurting yourself in ways that are also affecting your aura.”

“You’re tearing holes into yourself, darling.”

Micah wants to tell Quinn not to cry, though his eyes don’t meet either of their faces, he can tell simply by the quiver of Quinn’s voice that her eyes are glazing over with a glow of unshed tears. Don’t cry, he wants to gently cup her face in his hands and lean their foreheads together, I just need to dig out the pain and I can breathe again… I just need to get rid of every last piece that reminds me of him.

His fingernail digs deeper into a dip located on his arm instead, the bright red flesh pouring out blood from where he had dug a knife into his skin moments prior to their arrival, he had been close to the seed resting on this particular spot. From the floor, the bloody, oversized hoodie that once belonged to another stares back at him — it had been tugged off his body the moment Asya noticed Micah tug at the sleeves in an attempt to hide the row of cuts and scabs that were dripping blood down his arms.

“This isn’t the way to deal with this,” Asya’s voice sounds strained, his own tell sign of trying to keep it together before desperation kicks into his emotions and he snaps in an unnecessary manner.

“We’ll be here for you for as long as you need us to.”

Quinn’s hand is soft, but there’s strength in the way she pulls Micah’s hand away from the injury he keeps picking at. Micah wants to tell her there’s no need for her to comfort him, there’s no need for her to place his hand against her cheek where his blood stains her pale face, but words don’t work for him right now. Instead, Micah draws his eyes to a close when he feels Asya’s hand press against the back of his neck and pull him forward, their foreheads pressing together and Quinn’s lips brushing against the palm of his blood-crusted hand.

Sleep is heavy on his eyelids, Micah can’t recall the last time he slept longer than an hour. Sleeping means dreaming of Nameless, and dreaming of Nameless means waking up with his face buried in the wet, salty fabric of his pillow case as he wheezes and coughs out the remains of his shattered heart and his fingers dig deep into the crevices of his arm until his sheets are also soaked with blood, they're always soaking in blood.

Being awake is no better. Being awake means being alone, and being alone means dealing with the silence that surrounds his house and the lack of color that is slowly overtaking his home. In a fit of heartbreak over the remembrance of harsh words, Micah throws a potted plant out a nearby window at least once a day. In a fit of heartbreak and unwanted memories, Micah shatters pots made out of clay or glass against the bare walls now stained in soil. It’s when he collapses to his knees, that a pale — once vibrant crimson — flower will stare up at him from the shattered remains scattered all around.

The flowers are always drenched in his blood, they get their color from there, and now the broken shards of clay and glass are stained in it as well.

“Rest,” Quinn’s voice dips into the darkest parts of his mind, with Asya’s echoing right behind. He feels her fingers gently brush against his cheek, over the spot on his face where he had dug a needle into his skin the morning prior, “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

The last thing Micah intakes before he collapses against Quinn and Asya, is the sound of their voices promising him better days. He can’t find it in his heart to tell them that he can’t guarantee that promise, and neither can they...

[skinnedhearts]

coffee

Tea doesn't drink coffee.

Centuries ago, when Nameless was human and not the twisted, gruesome demon he was today, he'd stand on his tiptoes and peer at his instructor through heavy lidded eyes.

"What's wrong, sweet boy?" Tea asked as he lowered his coffee mug and placed it besides a stack of papers. He palmed his right knee, a thin smile graced his lips as he did so and again, he asked, "Sweet boy, what's wrong?"

Pitter-pattering across the floorboard Anzu's footsteps were soft and delicate. When Anzu reached Tea's side he held his arms out and waited. He wasn't kept waiting. Immediately, Tea scooped the small child off the ground and plopped him down on his leg.

Through the corners of his round eyes Anzu glared at the murky liquid inside the unusual mug. Unusual only because Anzu didn't recognize the unfamiliar utensil. At the top of Tea's great, oak desk sat rows of books, papers, feathery pens, glass jars filled with the blackest of inks, sealed letters, empty envelopes, molded candle-wax and a pretty, silver tea cup placed neatly upon a saucer. Many times before Anzu had sat on Tea's lap and studied the rose bush sprinkled across the cup's face. It’s misty green leaves hugged the outer ring of ruby red roses as peculiar golden buds hanged low, much too close to the ground where a pile of petals covered the bottom of the cup. If he squinted Anzu could see his own reflection in the clear, hot water inside the cup. If he squinted Anzu could see a boy squinting back at him. He's stick his tongue out and the boy would too. It was on Thursday morning that Anzu noticed a button-eyed bird hidden within the rose bush, it's sharp, tiny beak buried deep in a sea of red. Tapping his pinkie on the bird's blue head, Anzu blinked and the bird blinked back. Maybe the bird had known it would be replaced the next day. Maybe his sudden blink had been a silent farewell. The silver tea cup was gone and in it's place sat a red, ugly mug.

"That's not tea…" Anzu said, hiding his boyish face in Tea's long strands of hair.

"It's not." Tea confirmed.

Cautiously, Anzu spared the pitch black substance inside the red, ugly mug a glance, and then, with all the carefulness in the world, he asked, "W-what is it?"

"Coffee." Tea also spared the pitch black substance inside the red, ugly mug a glance, "Would you like a taste?"

Squirming, Anzu rapidly shook his head before he suddenly paused and turned to face the older man, "Is it good?"

"Well…" Tea started, "It's quite bitter. Cream and sugar are often used to soften the drink. I prefer mine in it's natural state."

"Do you like it?"

"No. Not at all."

"Then…" Anzu's wide, curious eyes twinkled, "Why do you drink it?"

Tea hummed, a kind smile only a foolish child could summon graced his lips, "It makes me feel human." 

-

Tea doesn't drink coffee.

Through the years, Nameless could rarely recall the number of times Tea held a coffee mug between his palms. It's a single digit number, Nameless would stake his life on it. Tea had once said he only drank coffee when he needed to feel human. As a child, the puzzling reply had made no sense to Nameless, after all, acting and living like a human came as easy to him as breathing. As to why his teacher craved to be more human than he already was, Nameless would never understand, or so he thought.

Tendrils of smoke snaked through his torso, coming at an end near the point of his ears. Nameless sat with his nose buried in a sea of grey, blank eyes glassy and distant. After Micah had departed, Nameless had sunk to his knees and collected the mess of colorless flowers gathered near the doorstep. The bloody flowers were stained red from where Micah had harshly uprooted them from his skin. If he focused, truly focused, the dying petals smelled like him…They smelled like Micah.

"What did you say to him?" Tea's tired voice filled the living room. Across from Nameless, Tea idly waited, silky long hair pinned to the top of his head in a messy bun. A steaming cup of coffee pressed to his lips, he tentatively took a sip and lowered the mug.

"Nothin' you didn't already know." Nameless hissed, opening his eyes to glare at Tea for disturbing his muddled thought process.

"You've upset him and-" Tea began only to be interrupted by an obnoxiously loud snort.

Nameless' is the drawing a scared five year old makes; frantic crayon squiggles in the shade of coal, red orbs for eyes, misshapen horns which kiss the top of the paper. He snapped his jaw and his mask split in two. Rows of sharp teeth glistened in the light as his mouth peeled into a dangerous grin. Dreadlocks whipped around his body, the golden rings clashed against one another creating a harmony of chirps. Long, slender waves of smoke uncurled from his body and soaked into the floor, when Nameless moved forward, the ground whrilpooled around his feet.

"That's all I'm good for. All I do is fuckin' upset him. That's all I'm good for!" He snarled, the throaty growl rumbled in the depth of his throat, "Ain't that what everyone wanted to see!? Ain't this what you signed up for pops?"

Composed, he lowered his mug onto the table and he flattened the ends of his cloak beneath his fingers, he thumbed the delicate fabric, smiling at nothing in particular, "Stupid boy. You have no one to blame but yourself." 

Though Nameless' aura erupted in gusts of toxic fumes, Tea remained calm, "Pushing an engaged man away is the correct thing to do, however, you're the one who picked his poison. Quite the poison you picked too. Won't you tell me what you used to kill him?"

Howling, Nameless viciously sunk his talons into the table resting between himself and Tea. The piece of furniture soared through the air, crumbling into pieces when it crashed against the kitchen's counter. Sharp, six feet long, spikes tore through Nameless' shirt, one by one, the spikes lined the bumps of his spine. Through the haze of white and black clouds and violent lines of smokes trailing from Nameless' deformed body, it was difficult to pinpoint which limb was an arm and which limb was a leg. Like a jagged tree and it's crooked branches, Nameless was a gigantic, looming form in the middle of the living room. He stood completely still. Furious, burning red eyes narrowed and a bitter, creak of a voice dripping with sarcasm snaked forward…"What should I have done differently father?"

Tea's gaze didn't quiver. Eyes locked on Nameless' ghastly shape, the wicked creature cracked it's many, many bones and advanced forward. The head of a goat, the torso of a boar, the legs of a stag…The head of a pig, the torso of a serpent, the legs of a lion…The head of a wolf- Tea lost count of the many, many forms Nameless settled on. An ordinary Witch would be frightened by the horrifying gargles of bones snapping and reforming. An ordinary Witch would shield his eyes and bow his head in a silent, merciful plea. Balls of blood dribbled onto Tea's cloak, staining the frills in a dark red, much too dark to be human. The stench of rotten flesh filled his nose. Languid strings of gore hanged from the salivating maw of the repugnant animal above his head. Tea clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in mild annoyance, "What a mess," He said rather sadly, "You've ruined my cloak."

Sighing, Tea took a few moments to mourn the soiled piece of clothing. There would be no saving it…The acidic globs of blood burned straight through the fabric, it sizzled between his feet. Lifting his left hand, Tea sunk his fingers into the tangled fur besides his cheek. Nameless barked. Tea hushed him. The enormous body of smoke, fur, and blood settled behind Tea and as it moved, Tea caught sight of numerous faces; burn victims, stained in red, gaping wide eye sockets, toothless holes, mangled beyond a recognizable form.Tea reached for his coffee, only to come back empty handed. His mug had shattered the moment Nameless had decided to take his anger out on the furniture. Very well…Tea folded his hands on his lap, "Are you done stupid boy of mine? Are we nearly finished?" 

From somewhere in the room Nameless gnawed and shut his jaw. He spoke in tongues, screeched, cursed, cursed, cursed. Tea attentively listened. He was nearly done. A couple of holes in the wall and a broken chair later, Nameless rested his head on Tea's lap. The head of a monster, all sharp teeth, multiple distorted eyes and pupils followed by the scent of death. Still, Tea scratched the patch of fur between two jagged ears…At least, Tea assumed it was fur but the texture felt odd. Too coarse and jumbled to be fur, too thick and slimy to be hair. Before his eyes, Tea watched as Nameless slowly reverted into his preferred form…Human, or what appeared to be a boy in his early twenties. Covered in deep, bloody cuts, Nameless laid naked and vulnerable. The wounds wept and internally,  Tea wept too.

For several prolonged minutes, father and son were absorbed in absolute silence. It's Nameless' exhausted voice that pierced through the air, "I know he's hurtin' himself. He was doin' it before he left, kept diggin' out his flowers and-" 

Nameless choked on a mouthful of words, brow wrinkling in distress when his tongue worked against him.

Heart full of love, Tea smoothed the worried lines around Nameless' mouth with the ends of his thumbs, "Take your time."

Nameless buried his face in Tea's lap, unbothered by the blood stained clothing stuck to his cheek. He closed his eyes and exhaled, "He's stubborn. I couldn't give him anythin' to cling onto. He would've held on tight, I know him, he would've."

Tea's fingers traced the outline of a gushing cut placed between Nameless' collar bone and his left arm. The injury hissed, bubbling black when a spark of magic danced through out Tea's outstretched hand. Despite it's protests, the wound closed, leaving behind a faint, discolored scar. Nameless' skin is covered in scars…Tea's chest ached.

"What did you say to him?" Tea asked, fully prepared for another meltdown. He'd endure his child's countless tantrums and once he was done breaking his surroundings apart, Tea would ask again, What did you say to him?

Nameless tensed and Tea held his breath.

"I told him the truth."

"Ah." It all clicked into place. Nameless didn't need to elaborate. Tea could perfectly picture it, "An outdated truth."

"It doesn't matter."

"I suppose it doesn't. What's done is done."

While Nameless snoozed on his lap, Tea took the opportunity to heal and force close the many bloody slits scattered throughout Nameless' body. Each cut would rebel against Tea's white magic, each cut would hiss and spit streams of unpleasant fluids before it disappeared under Tea's palm. If Nameless was in any sort of pain he didn't dare show it, he only clawed and nestled deeper into the comforting scent of his father figure. Tea couldn't help but smile. The demonic creature was reduced to nothing but a common, fat house cat.

Voice sleepy and muffled, Nameless spoke, "He'll be alright…"

Tea stroked Nameless' cheek, "Eventually. He'll need time to heal, as you will too."

A chuckle is lost within the depths of his mouth, "His fiance will take care of it. I'm too fucked up to be anywhere near him…"

Tea's expression remained calm. He couldn't tell Nameless that the engagement had been called off. He couldn't tell him of the horrid state both Neirin and Micah found themselves in. As far as Tea was concerned it wasn't Nameless' burden to bare. Not anymore. 

Tea hummed.

"I'll take care of you sweet boy." Cupping Nameless' face into his hands, Tea smiled tenderly as Nameless blinked his tired eyes up at him, "How about we start with a cup of coffee?"

[skinnedhearts]

collection

He collects snails. 

It's is the twentieth time this week Anzu has seen Sylvee pluck a snail from the soil and plop it directly into the depths of his pocket. At first, Anzu found it rather…Cruel? The snails should be allowed to live, their gooey translucent paths were brought to a halt the moment Sylvee interfered and it all rang rather unfair in Anzu’s ears. From his hidden spot on the staircase, Anzu chewed the end of a gummy worm and lazily observed as Sylvee skipped through the school's courtyard, blue ponytail bouncing in the air with his every step. Anzu can't be bothered to follow after him. Once Sylvee is out of view Anzu forgets all about spacious, dark pockets and terrified snails. Out of sight, out of mind. 

On a Friday morning, Anzu sat with his back pressed against the bricked wall, basswood guitar nestled in his arms. Lightly, his fingers danced over the chords. The hum of a known song vibrates down his hand, loud enough to be felt on his palm, soft enough to be mistaken with a gust of summer air. Anzu's eyes are closed, the lull of sleep heavy against his lids.  

"Do you want to know what I did with the snails?" Sylvee's sweet voice is drawn into a whisper.

Anzu's eyes snapped open, slightly startled by Sylvee's sudden appearance. The boy stood on the heels of his bleached splattered shoes, hands intertwined behind his back as he swayed forward. On the rim of his red glasses sat a snail, it moved forward with the pace of a…Snail. It's awfully slow. Did Sylvee place it there? Most likely. 

"Well…Do you?" Sylvee asked again, this time, slightly louder than before. 

Anzu placed his guitar to the side, "You eat them." 

A twinkling snort bubbled from Sylvee's throat. 'A twinkling snort' is the best way Anzu could describe the cute-ish sound Sylvee made. It's nothing like the type of gruesome (and slightly disturbing) sound a pig or a hog would spit out.

Everything about Sylvee is cute; to his round green eyes, tiny nose and mouth, to the oversized yellow sweater where the gigantic sleeves hid his (probably) tiny hands. Almost alien, Sylvee's innocent looks clashed against the dingy lighting of the hidden staircase. 

"I don't eat them." Sylvee said, pressing the sleeve of his yellow sweater to the end of his chin, "I move them to Micah's garden. You know about it too, right?"

Anzu was surprised by Sylvee's knowledge. Not many were aware of Micah's secretive gardening hobbies…However, it's Sylvee. Of course he would know.

"Aren't snails bad for gardens?" Anzu replied, sharp eyebrow raised in question.

"Some of them are." Sylvee admitted with a nod, "My snails are good." 

"That's not how it works kid."

Sylvee tipped his head back and hummed, "It's how it works around me." 

If an orbiting spaceship with dazzling phantasmagorical lights were to appear above Sylvee's head to engulf him in a blinding beam and promptly proceed to carry him back home to an unknown sphere, Anzu would find the obscure phenomenon bizarre but fitting. Home: a baby-blue planet where pretty boys with big, doe eyes and pink cheeks fill their pockets with snails. 

This kid is weird. An endearing sort of weird. Anzu is tempted to ask Sylvee if he smokes, and if not, would he like to start? To witness Sylvee's already large eyes turn to the size of the moon, and the shade of a spacey, star-struck green, would be absolutely remarkable. 

Sylvee sunk to his knees and removed his backpack. Anzu hadn't noticed the bag before, it had been hidden by Sylvee's sweater. Poking through his belongings, Sylvee let out a victorious "Ah-Ha!" when his sleeves closed around a neatly wrapped box. The checkered cloth which hugged the rectangular object is then placed on Anzu's lap.

"I made too much." 

Anzu doesn't need to open it to know there's food inside. He can smell the thinly veiled scent of something savory hidden within the lunchbox. A knot choked his throat. Earlier today, Anzu had  admitted defeat. When it came to bills, he didn't have enough money to cover most of them, which meant, he didn’t have money to spend on groceries. Last minute shifts could only help so much…Oh, he was tired. If he sold his guitar he could make sure his brother didn't go to bed with an empty stomach. 

Sylvee's enormous alien eyes glittered, "My hand slipped, I made enough to last you a few days!" He tipped his head to the side, pale blue locks slid down his round cheeks, "I'll make more tomorrow. I'll get the measurements right, probably!" 

Anzu can see right through Sylvee's act only because Sylvee isn't trying to hide it from him. Sylvee will never get the measurements right, he’ll always make too much. With a solemn nod, Anzu accepts Sylvee's dashing act of kindness. 

-

He collects phone numbers. 

The scraps of paper are stained in droplets of bitter liquor. Carelessly, Sylvee pushed another messily scribbled number into the depths of his pocket. From his seat in the bar, Anzu swirled his glass and cautiously observed Sylvee as he pressed a bare knee between a random guy's thighs. In the seat besides his, Wamu cleared his throat and shouted over the blaring techno music, "He's going to leave with him."

"I know." Anzu tipped back his glass and swallowed the remains of his drink.

Sensing Anzu's discomfort, Wamu jumped into what he did best: He talked. He talked about the club's atmosphere, how it paled in comparison to Poppy's bar. He talked about their latest performance, how he thought it was better than the previous night. He talked about the crappy talk-show he watched two days ago, he talked about his twitter follower count, he talked and talked and talked. Anzu listened, he fed Wamu a gummy worm and listened. Occasionally, he'd side-eye Sylvee (as would Wamu) but more importantly, he listened. 

It wasn't until Neirin hurriedly tugged Wamu away from the bar and led him somewhere Anzu didn't care to question that Anzu fully focused on Sylvee…Or what was left behind by him. His shoes sit side by side at the top of an empty booth. Inside the left shoe, Sylvee's phone screen momentarily flashed on. With a weary sigh, Anzu pushed himself away from the bar and made his way towards the booth. 

Thirty minutes ago, Sylvee had pushed his random hookup into one of the club's bathrooms which meant he was drunk enough to have sex in a public area but not drunk enough to fall to his knees where everyone could see. Sliding Sylvee's phone into his palm, Anzu briefly examined the stacked text messages on his home screen. Not interested in invading Sylvee's privacy, Anzu slid the phone into his back pocket and hooked his fingers through the laces of Sylvee's shoes.

Ready to down another shot of tequila Anzu eyed the bar. Before he could leave the booth, the bathroom door shot open and out stumbled Sylvee's hook up. Disheveled and intoxicated, the guy shakily buttoned his pants, shoving the ends of his blood stained shirt into the hem of his jeans. 

Anzu had half the mind to kick the man in the dick but he can't…If he were to indulge his rage and fists, he'd be thrown out, leaving Sylvee defenseless in a rotten bathroom stall. Teeth clenched, Anzu roughly pushed the crowd to the side and threw the door separating him from Sylvee open. 

The dimly lit bathroom is packed. The scent of vomit, piss and something awfully sugary is thick in the air. Anzu wrinkled his nose. Once inside, the clubs' music is reduced to a dull drum. At the entrance a group of men struggle to pick their friend off the floor. Towards the back there's a circle of guys participating in something Anzu is much too familiar with. Plastic baggies are exchanged and blue pills are crushed under thumbs. In the middle, stalls swung open and close as a stream of drunk men stumbled in and out of them. The last stall remained slightly ajar. Anzu moved closer and spotted droplets of blood next to bare feet. Pushing through with his elbow, Anzu's heart hammered violently in his throat.

Sylvee's head is held up by the toilet's seat, his cheeks are stained red and with specks of vomit. His crop top is splattered in white, a type of crusty white Anzu doesn't need to analyze. The fishnet stockings on Sylvee's thin legs are ripped open and his shorts are undone. The clothes stick to his frame, too tight, too close, too revealing. His collarbones are exposed, his shorts hide nothing. His thighs are bloody, covered in deep bite marks, the red droplets plip-plop onto the yellowish tiles. 

Dazed, a dull green stare is lazily brought onto Anzu's stoic face. Sylvee's bloody mouth twitched upwards into a smile, "I had too much." He said. 

The small boy is weightless. Without any effort, Anzu tucked Sylvee's head under his chin and cradled his tiny body against his chest.  

He's done this before. He's lost count of how many times he's pulled Sylvee away from puddles of blood and vomit, hauled him into his arms, out of the club and into his car. Sylvee pressed the pads of his fingers against the car's window, eyes widening in size when he couldn't pinch the flickering streetlights as Anzu zoomed in and out of traffic. 

His round green eyes hop from the window to the bloody mess between his legs.

He happily giggled. 

"Does it hurt?" Anzu asked.

Sylvee hummed, stare vacant as if he's seeing something Anzu isn't allowed to see. 

"It hurts." 

Anzu tapped his index finger on the steering wheel, "Okay. I'll fix it."

And he fixed it. 

With Sylvee resting in a tub full of water, Anzu carefully scrubbed his body. Anzu ran soapy suds through Sylvee's hair and lowered his hands towards his shoulders…And came to a sudden halt above his waist. Sylvee purred. 

"You're not shy." Sylvee stated. 

"But I am respectful." Anzu answered. 

Sylvee snorted and this time, he sounds like a pig. Innocence was lost.

He's still Alien. To Anzu, Sylvee will always be Alien. With his big, round eyes and his tiny nose and mouth, there's a baby-blue planet where pretty boys with bloody thighs and vomit stained cheeks grin from ear to ear as they drop to their knees. 

Sylvee wrapped a damp hand around Anzu's shirt, dragged him closer. Unphased, Anzu lightly pushed his drunken friend away. Sylvee clicked his tongue in frustration as he suddenly shot forward knocking Anzu off balance. Not wasting anytime, Sylvee crawled out of the bath and pinned Anzu below his wet body. Water droplets slid down Sylvee's naked torso, collected in puddles beneath his bare legs. Blue strands of hair clung to his cheeks and neck, plastered against his slick skin like a tangled arc of a bristle brush.  

Speechless and wide eyed Anzu stared up into Sylvee's moon sized eyes. The light above Sylvee's head glowed like a halo, a halo of burning yellow. Face darkened by shadows, Sylvee lips brushed against Anzu's nose…Anzu thickly swallowed. 

A tiny mewl fell from between Sylvee's lips the moment he pushed his crotch against Anzu's hip bone, too small to make proper contact with what he wanted between his legs but not at all ungrateful for the much needed friction. At Sylvee's sounds of pleasure, Anzu caved…He's burning, has been burning from the moment he met Sylvee. This isn't right, he tells himself, this isn't right…The way Sylvee grinds against him, the way his fingernails sink into his chest, the way his eyes flutter close…It feels right. 

And as Anzu is about to wrap his hands around Sylvee's waist and roll him onto the floor…Sylvee comes to a sudden stop. His lower lip wobbled and his eyes glistened. One by one, his tears flowed down his cheeks and hanged from his chin. One by one, his tears fell from his face and met with Anzu's cheekbones.

"You look…" Sylvee chocked on a sob, "You look like your brother."

Anzu exhaled.

"I know."

Taking Sylvee into his arms, Anzu held him close. Sylvee's body shook and Anzu soothed him with a hushed whisper.

The blood leaves behind a ring of red on the marble.

[skinnedhearts]

along they came...

Asya learns and thinks about friendship, and then learns and confuses the difference between what could have been and what he assumes is first love.

Thump, thump, thump…

A language he doesn’t understand, one not quite easy to comprehend, that’s the way the world runs to Asya — that’s the way it has always been.  He doesn’t bother dwelling on the past, they’re all memories with no faces or shape; irrelevant, all of it, he thinks when crossed his mind. It’s only hindrance… His struggles, his dull sense of wit.

Knowledge of reading people over the years becomes an impossible task, the act proves to be difficult when day to day interactions with strangers or people he’s been surrounded by over the years are nothing more than a blur to the face —  an abstract shape walking alongside him in the halls, in the streets, in every public setting. Only few stand out. Only few dare to wipe off the smeared paint dripping down their faces and distorting their appearance in Asya’s point of view.

Wamu was first, then followed Miles, Micah, begrudgingly Anzu, Neirin, and then… along came Sylvee.

There was still some distortion the day Sylvee approached him. The sound of his voice had a brief static buzz to it, his form carried a splatter of blue paint smeared all around — blue paint that had merely washed off within the span of less than an hour. Asya doesn��t notice…

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

“The others are finishing up some things first, but you can stay if you want.” There’s a nod over to the couch located within the garage, “I just finished up cleaning the place, so feel free to get comfortable.”

“That’s okay, I don’t mind waiting here! What if I touch something I’m not supposed to after you left the place so clean!”

“You’ll be standing for a long while,” Asya settles on the armrest of the couch with his arms crossed over his chest. “Everyone has their own things to take care of first before they start heading over here.”

“Well…” Sylvee’s brief toying with the edge of his hoodie gets cut off the moment he hears a soft meow followed by the sight of a white, fluffy cat strolling across the garage and purring against Asya’s leg. “You have a cat!”

“Two, actually. The other one spends a lot of time in Irin’s room.”

“She’s really pretty,” Sylvee makes his way over in steps that look as if he’s floating in air. His strides are something equivalent to a fairy or perhaps a pixie gliding across the surface of the ground, Asya thinks. With his shorter classmate kneeling down to pet his cat, Asya takes the moment to crouch down himself and watch as Sylvee’s fingers sink and glide against Snow’s fur. “And her fur is so soft…”

Sylvee’s smile is bright enough to illuminate the entire garage, Asya finds himself glancing at the little windows resting on the garage door to catch a view of how the sunlight is outside.

“What makes you think it’s a girl?”

“Besides those pretty blue eyes,” Sylvee giggles and Asya glances back over to him —  there’s clarity to Sylvee’s face that no longer looks distorted or smudge in blue paint, “I have a precious cat of my own. You just get a feeling after owning a cat for so many years, it helps that I always find so many scattered around my neighborhood too that I’ve befriended. These are just a few that I’ve spotted!”

When Sylvee pulls out his phone to scroll through his pictures, Asya leans in even closer, ignorant to the rosy blush that instantly dusts Sylvee’s cheeks and the brief stammer in his voice as he lists off names of every cat he scrolls past.

“I’m sure it’s probably weird to have so many pictures like these, some of these cats might even have owners and yet I’m here having photoshoots with them.”

“Guess that makes two of us,” Pulling out his own phone from his back pocket, Asya opens up his own photo album to show Sylvee his scattered collection of cat pictures sprinkled in between pictures of his family. “Too many on the street to be ignored.”

“Then.. how about we exchange pictures of the ones we take?”

A blink in response and the smallest of smiles tug on the corner of Asya’s lips.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

“You’ve been glued to your phone the entire time we’ve been trying to study,” Iris cuts through Asya’s attention on his lit up screen, a picture of a tabby cat peeking out through the bottom of a bush being the sight currently dominating all his attention. “Have you even studied anything for the final? I hope you realize this is literally the last week we have of tests before graduating.”

“I’ll get to it,” his attention drifts back onto his phone where his fingers begin typing up a response followed by an attached picture of another mere street cat he took himself.

Iris raises a brow in surprise at her brother’s actions, something new even to her. In past times, Iris and Irin exchange a brief look across the kitchen table, would they be used to Asya sparing a brief glance to his phone to read over whatever text message would be sent in the group chat or by Wamu, before setting it back down to not pick up until after their studying for the day was done. Oh, well, both siblings glance back to their own pile of studies to tackle for the day; surely their older brother was well aware of what he was doing.

Asya was definitely not aware of what he was doing.

“You’re still up, Kier?” Tea’s voice of surprise cuts in through the silence of the kitchen now merely being illuminated by the light hanging over the kitchen table and the green colored numbers marking the time resting on the microwave and stove, “It’s past one in the morning. Don’t you have school tomorrow? Where’s your brother and sister?”

“Sleeping.” Exhausted eyes peel away from the words all blurring into one on his textbook, “Why are you here at this time?”

“Poppy sent me over to pick something up to take over to the club. Didn’t expect to find any of you kids awake, much less you.” Tea towers over Asya’s hunched form, his fingers burying into the messy, black locks of Asya’s hair to briefly ruffle in a comforting act, “It sure isn’t like you to be up this late studying when you usually have it all under control. Anything on your mind?”

Asya’s eyes briefly glance over to his phone now set facing down against the wooden surface of the table, Sylvee’s goodnight message still fresh in his mind leaving Asya to the sudden reality of the pile of coursework he would have been past done with hours ago. Time simply seemed to fly without him realizing, not even when Irin and Iris called out their goodnights and Poppy sent out his own goodbye before heading off to work, did Asya register the way the sun was beginning to set down beyond the horizon. During those past hours, all he remembers fresh in his memory is the ping of his phone to which would be answered instantly with typing of his own, the action of texting one to have never hooked onto him as much as it has now.

His head shakes briefly while his mind still ponders. Sure, he’s been caught up in messaging Wamu before, but those streaks usually don’t last before he’s slipping into a call with him or meeting up in person. But with Sylvee, who’s still somewhat brand new to Asya’s life, did he find himself unable to drop his phone down.

“It’s nothing,” Asya chalks it all up to what comes with a newfound friendship with a person who managed to push past your first round of defense barriers, “Just got distracted.”

Tea hums in thought.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

“I’m not riding with you. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m getting on top of that,” Micah jabs his thumb over to Asya’s motorcycle accusingly, almost as if punishing the two wheeled metal vehicle, “On a day like this without a jacket on.”

A glance to the sky above them and both Micah and Asya take in the gray colored hue blanketed in an expanse of clouds threatening to drop every inch of water stored within them at any second now.

Asya frowns in response, “All of you don’t fit in one car.” “What ‘bout Wamu? Can’t he ride with you?”

“... The weather makes him worry he’ll get his hair wet.”

There’s a groan that bubbles up in Micah’s throat that signals his defeat, but before the sound can even erupt past his lips, a quiet shuffling against the pavement of the driveway catches their attention as Sylvee approaches their little shivering huddle.

“I can ride with Asya if Micah doesn’t want to. He can go ahead and take my seat in Anzu’s car.”

The compromise was an unexpected one, but nevertheless does Asya find himself with Sylvee’s face buried into his back as they switch from lane to lane and nothing but the roar of his engine fills their heads. For a moment, Asya wonders as he feels the hold Sylvee has around his waist tighten, if this is Sylvee’s first time in something this fast. With every brief five minute intervals does it feel like Sylvee’s arms wrap around him tighter and tighter, so much so that if Asya was nothing but a mere rubber toy, would his eyes surely pop out of his head.

At the approach of a red light, does Asya slightly let himself lean back against Sylvee’s buried head and just a hint, for too much would be off putting to Asya himself… does a ghost of a smile tug at the corner of his lips. Mere seconds before the opposing lane gets cut off and their current lane gets the flash of green to continue onto their trip to Poppy’s club, does Asya give a brief pat onto Sylvee’s arms resting snugly around his waist; the sign nothing more than comfort in the best way Asya could communicate.

Sylvee buries his head further into his back, a wider smile graces Asya’s face as if it’s done so a million times before, and the streetlight flashes green.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

“You did great up there!” Sylvee presses a small, black towel into Asya’s hand to which he accepts with a smile of gratitude. “I’ve seen you practice so many times, but something about your stage look is really cool.”

“That’s probably because he makes sure to detach himself as much as mentally possible.” Micah chimes in from his spot on one of the counter booths with a grin, “Can’t slip up while playing if your mind is elsewhere.”

“Funny.” Asya’s frown is met with Micah sticking out his tongue in mock amusement, “Helps to be put to help at the club. Guess it’s not so bad playing on stage when some of these people I’ve noticed before even in passing.”

“Almost as if you’re hosting a concert for a room filled with friends.” Sylvee laughs, the comment not exactly one way Asya would describe it, but nevertheless still going with for the sake of Sylvee being able to see it from his own point of view.

“It also helps to spot familiar faces among the crowd.” The hand not holding the now slightly damp towel covered in the sweat Asya wiped from his face comes to gently rest on the top of Sylvee’s head, “Usually I don’t take note of the crowd. I’ve played with my eyes closed before… but I spotted you near the front row, it was grounding.”

Words so dangerous… Oh, how Asya does not notice the way such statements make a heart skip beats. From the seats nearby, Neirin glances away from the sight and can only hope for the best and nothing but luck for Sylvee’s soft heart.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

“Going out again, Kier?” Tea’s head pops out of the kitchen, his long ponytail with stray hairs pouring out of the elastic band falling off his shoulder at the angle his body framed. “Why don’t you just invite Sylvee over instead of going out to eat? Save some money, you two are going to be college students in debt soon.”

“How do you assume it’s Sylvee I’m meeting up and not Wamu,” Asya pauses, glance thrown over his shoulder while one boot settles on his foot and the other hangs untied from his hands.

“Because I don’t see Wamu currently raiding our fridge. You have yet to bring Sylvee over for dinner, yet he’s always the one you’re taking your time saying goodbye to the most when practice ends.”

“He always has to be home first before anyone else most of the time…”

There’s a heat that rises to Asya’s cheeks with the source unbeknownst to him, a heat that he excuses and pins on the warmth of the house from Tea’s use of the oven and the jacket he slipped on before coming downstairs.

“It sure seems as if he’s been granted an extended outing then if you’re off to see him again. You two have a weekly thing? I can’t recall the last time you left the house on your own so much without Wamu leaving alongside you.”

“That’s cause this is Wamu’s second home,” Iris chimes in from her descent down the stairs, her eyes scanning Asya’s outfit up and down with an amused look to which Asya suddenly finds himself feeling… self conscious under the intense picking of his actions and appearance from Iris and Tea. “Sylvee hasn’t been promoted to indoor status yet where his attention will be dominated by you and Poppy, Tea. Of course Asya is basking in that while he still can.”

“You two are making no sense…” Asya settles back with slipping his other boot on and hastily grabbing his keys. “I have to go, I’ll be back before Poppy leaves to work at the club tonight.”

“Tell little Veevs your family says hi!” Tea calls out, “And bring the boy home already, will you, Kier?”

The sound of the door shutting at the end of his request; Tea and Iris share a brief look.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

“You haven’t told Poppy and Tea about your submission to classes being entered late?” There’s a frown on Micah’s face, a scolding that’s in the making that Asya ignores by turning to lean his back against the fence diving the benches and the tennis courts. Just like that, Micah’s disapproving expression is met with Asya’s back, an act that only makes Micah sigh in response, “This is serious, Kier. They’re going to find out when college courses start and everyone is going but you.”

“Isn’t it enough that I still went ahead and sent my paperwork.”

“No, actually, life doesn’t just grant special exceptions to those that enter things late.”

The silence is thick between the two, the tension too strong for Micah’s comfort after a late night spent messaging Priya back and forth.

“Look, Asya… I know you feel lost on what to do,” Micah’s hand slips past the diamond gap in the fence to gently take hold of Asya’s shirt, “But you can always find your way once you start going. Get some help, there’s a counselor in college still for a reason, y’know.”

“You sound a bit just like him.”

A brief pause, a request for Asya to elaborate.

“I turned the things in last minute because I couldn’t make up my mind. Every part of me didn’t want to go, what was the point? I don’t know what the hell I want to do.” His hand reached up to drag down his face in frustration, “But… Sylvee told me not to throw in the towel too soon. Came over to help me spend the entire day filling everything I needed to, came with me to take my placement tests, he gave me the pushes I needed and I owe him more than I can currently afford.”

Micah’s hand drops from Asya’s shirt at the confession, a tug in his heart that could only be seen as hope for Asya to spot the importance Sylvee could take in his life, the completeness that their friend made up of the sun could shine down onto Asya’s life seeking proper guidance. Words rest on his tongue, words that could potentially plant the necessary seeds onto Asya’s head, words… that aren’t for Micah to share yet. Not when Sylvee seemed so full of hope for the changes to come once he’s able to move out of his parent’s home, for the changes that Micah could spot within Asya but could only hope Asya has spotted himself.

“Take him out somewhere nice to eat, a night out in the town.“ Micah turns and lets his own back rest against the fence; against Asya’s, “He’s excited to be moving out in a little over a month, he won’t have a strict curfew to abide by anymore. Want to make it up to him for encouraging you? Give him some dates to remember.”

“I will.”

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

“Maybe if you ask…”

Sylvee tucked a stray blue hair behind his ear, the anxiety eating away in the pit of his stomach from the inside out. Still, a nervous glance over to Asya who seemed rooted on the spot on the bottom step of the staircase leading to the admissions office, his need to maintain as calm as possible to avoid edging Asya more reigned itself first above everything else.

“I can go with you if you want,” Sylvee’s hand hesitates for a moment, but still slips into Asya’s left hand with a small squeeze.

At the action, does Asya snap back into focus to momentarily glance down at their hands. Sylvee’s breath hitches in his throat, and his heart melts and spills from the soles of his feet the moment Asya closes his hand around Sylvee’s and gives it a small squeeze in return.

“You’re practically the one that helped me enroll. It was my fault it got turned in so late and nothing arrived at the house.”

“You can still ask!”

“Special exceptions aren’t granted to those that enter things late…”

Asya mirrors Micah’s past words, words that Sylvee frowns at and simply refuses to accept.

“Asya Kier, either you march yourself up those stairs and ask yourself about the status of your application, or I will go ahead and do it for you!”

Surprise widens Asya’s dark eyes and a brief chuckle slips past his lips at the threat he should consider serious. With another brief squeeze to Sylvee’s hand, does he tug the boy closer right into his arms, the difference in height between the two settling Sylvee’s head right on Asya’s chest where his heart… How Asya’s heart beats in that moment at the same pace the world moves and how the hope for a future to come light up Sylvee’s face in hues of rose to which he holds on to with his own shorter arms wrapping tight around Asya’s waist.

“Alright, Veevs, you win.” Asya pulls back, his hold on Sylvee’s hand taking place once more, the action visible the moment Asya starts climbing the steps of the staircase and their held hands rise up in the air from the distance being added between them. “Wait for me?”

“I’ll be here.”

Their hands let go.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

To Asya, reading the world has always been a hindrance. Perhaps, a lack of ability in regards to actions and thoughts aimed at him. Actions and thoughts his own heart took place in out of yearning, out of knowing what his life wanted and needed, but his mind not being in the same tune as the beat of his heart.

Hints come and go to him, actions Asya would find himself thinking of late at night with his hand stretched out towards the ceiling with his fingers extended and the gaps between reminding him of the way Sylvee’s own fit. Actions that make his hand close into a fist unknown to him the failure of capturing the true meaning behind it in the palm of his hand.

He compares them all to his interactions with Wamu, he compares them all to his interactions with Micah, he ponders if Sylvee’s have any difference to them despite not knowing him for that long compared to how long he’s known the previous two… Asya rolls over in bed and lets his eyes fall to a close, allowing the world to think about it another day and another and the cycle repeats.

What could be considered past a friendship hits him out of the blue time after. On the tip of his tongue, ready to drip out, does the realization of his bubbling feelings toward Sylvee linger before being shoved back into his heart, in a chest that yearns and pounds against the cover to be opened again.

In the sound of his moan, back hitting the wall and hands slipping underneath his shirt, tugging at his belt, does the conclusion that maybe his current experience taking place is what romantic sudden encounters are meant to be.

The world has always been a blur — a mess of abstract shapes and people with no solid form. Only a few have managed to wipe their faces clear of the smudged paint distorting their faces from Asya’s point of view. Those people, Asya draws in conclusion at the end of that hot and heavy day, are the ones that have become close and important enough to become his friends… In the dark of the night does Wamu and Sylvee come to mind; his best of friends.

The other… Once more, Asya allows himself to roll over to the other side of his bed, the memory of lips on his neck and his fingers desperately gripping onto the fabric of a jacket with a pleasure filled groan once he feels a thigh slip between his legs; Asya considers to be strong enough to consider more than a friend.

His surprise is intense, when he felt lips brush against his ear and whisper their attraction towards him with such boldness. In the mere span of a few minutes after stepping offstage, does the newfound face come into his vision with full clarity. The interaction unknown to any that he’s had in his life before makes his heart skip beats, his ears ring, and his head spin. The surprise over his own body following the newfound person into the back of the club and out the door into the barely lit alleyway further distorts the feelings already tucked into his heart in the deepest parts of it.

First came Wamu into his life, then Miles, Micah, Anzu, Sylvee; all important friends to give him the meaning of deep friendships and people to never take for granted, to appreciate for having broken past his walls and make his life clearer.

And then, throwing into a sudden wave of newfound actions and feelings controlled more by lust and hormones not yet clear to Asya and instead hiding under the disguise of love and affection, did along come Kiel...

[skinnedhearts]

blind

Sylvee makes a wreck out of his life. Asya remains oblivious. Anzu is very tired, angry and concerned.

It never happens in Poppy's bar. It's always in a dingy, unknown club Sylvee's friends pick out.

The bar was packed and the relaxed ambiance was one they could all appreciate when they had nowhere else to go…But there was only so much they could do (or put up with) under Poppy's and Tea's watchful eye. 

Anzu, Micah, Iris, Miles, Wamu, Neirin and Sylvee; The group stood in a circle outside The Dark Mantel. 

Anzu's eyes are clouded over with the traces of a hazy high, expression stony and distant, his pretty mouth is covered by a pitch black mask, "I don't care where we end up goin'." 

With one smooth statement, Anzu ejected himself from the conversation. No one seemed to mind. 

Micah pushed green curls of hair behind his ear, eyebrows knitting with mild concern when he spoke, "I'm cool with anything but I have to head home in a few hours so…Can we hurry this up?" 

Wamu chortled, "Man, you and N are on the exact same boat!" 

Besides Wamu, Neirin frowned but accepted Wamu's arm around his shoulders.

The backdoor to the bar opened and out stepped Canto, followed closely by Lemon and Asalea.

Canto raised a brow, a sly look displayed across his face, "We haven't made up our minds yet?"

Miles sighed and offered the new arrivals a quick explanation, "We're trying. Iris doesn't want to go to Spiderwebs because it's filled with dumb jocks…And Nieirn and Wamu think Pink Lipstick is too far of a walk. "

Asalea skipped forward, her puffy pink hair hugged her red cheeks when she pressed her dainty fingers to her round lips, "I can pull a few strings and get us into Acrylic." 

Wamu's eyes widened with excitement, "Really!? B-but the lines are always packed! They're so selective!"

Asalea met Wamu's giddiness with a giggle, "No problem! We can totally bypass all the small details, leave it to me!"

While the group worked out a plan, Iris shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie and with the tip of her combat boot she kicked at an empty beer bottle.

The bottle skipped across the pavement, coming to a stop near Sylvee's squeaky-clean, white platforms. For a couple of seconds, Sylvee observed the empty bottle, his thoughts fluctuated between tactics used to score free drinks from scummy guys and how tight and cold his bare legs felt in the cold winter night. In his high-waisted shorts and pale, yellow crop-top, Sylvee's skin was sprinkled in goosebumps. He could only hope his make-up wouldn't be ruined, after all, he worked much too hard on the glittery, tiny hearts and stars circling his eyes and cheeks. To keep his blood flowing, Sylvee rubbed his legs together and tightened his jaw to keep his teeth from clattering. 

When Anzu draped his bomber jacket on Sylvee's shivering shoulders, Sylvee's eyebrows met his hairline, green eyes doubling in size with surprise. 

Anzu's voice was a slight whisper in the air, "Don't want you getting' sick."

Sylvee smiled, "Thank you."

Ten minutes later, the group is piling off into three different cars. Sylvee sat between Miles and Iris while Anzu drove and Micah picked away at the radio in the passenger seat. 

Surrounded by friends there's never a minute of silence. Micah and Miles questioned Asya's whereabouts, a conversation Sylvee tuned out the moment Iris confirmed their shared suspicions, "He's with Kiel. They might join us later…I texted him the address." 

In the rear view mirror, Anzu's sharp eyes briefly focused on Sylvee.

The rest is a blur. 

Parking is eight dollars. They each pitch in two bucks. Joined by the rest of the group, they marched, skipped and walked down the crowded streets and only gathered behind Asalea when she shot the bouncer a charming smile and whispered god knows what into his ear. While Asalea took care of business, Sylvee eyed the long, long lines. A couple of people mean-mugged him the moment eye contact was made, not that Sylvee was offended when his group had skipped to the front of the line. The breeze picked up and a shiver shot down his spine. Suddenly, Sylvee missed Anzu's jacket…He had folded it and left it in the car thinking he'd have no use for it inside the club. 

Sylvee was brought out of his thoughts when Anzu pressed his palm to the small of his back. 

"Come on kid, we ain't leavin' you behind." 

Somehow, Asalea had come through. One after the other, the group stepped out of the harsh winter air and into the warm, neon-lit club. From the outside, the music could be heard and it got even louder once they were fully embraced by the club's walls. The ground nearly shook with the thunder of music, a detail Canto could appreciate. 

In the middle of the club there's a mob of bodies, dancing against one another, hands in the air and heads swaying from side to side. That's where Sylvee longed to be. While his friends occupied themselves with the discussion of empty tables, Sylvee took the opportunity to slip away. He doesn't have to glance back to know Neirin and Anzu noticed his every action…He doesn't have to stick around to know they're both hiding their concern. However, that's not something Sylvee wanted to worry about and so, he kept walking.

Joining the dancing body of people, Sylvee easily slipped in. The dazzling lights, the booming music, the cheer of the crowd…It invited him in. On the tip of his toes, he's made of air. Bouncing from one end to the other, the small boy swayed from side to side until his back is firmly pressed against someone's chest. There's a hand on his naked stomach, there's a thigh nestled between his legs. Sylvee pressed further into the stranger, tipping his head back when lips are pressed to the side of his neck. After a few minutes of senseless grinding, Sylvee spun around, flirty smile widening in size when he met the stranger face to face. Oh, thank god, he's cute. The man was nicely built, his toned arms and stomach made obvious in the skin-tight black shirt he sported. His silver hair is swept back, and his vibrant blue eyes twinkled when he flashed a toothy grin. Sylvee licked his lips and the handsome stranger feverishly swooped in and kissed him. Strong arms looped around Sylvee's thin waist, and thanks to the frantic dancers surrounding the pair, Sylvee was bumped further into the stranger. His whimpers are drowned in a sea of sweat and shouts. 

Sylvee laced their fingers together and dragged his partner out of the dancefloor. Spotting an empty table near the entrance of the club, Sylvee tugged the stranger along and only came to a stop when they both slipped into the booth. 

Absolutely no time was wasted. 

Nimble fingers skillfully undid the belt and front button of the man's blue jeans, Sylvee bowed his head and nearly choked on the length and girth when he's roughly made to take more into his mouth. The stranger gathered strands of Sylvee's blue hair between his fingers and messily guided him up and down his dick. Strings of saliva coated Sylvee's hand, tears burned the corners of his eyes and he spluttered and coughed when the stranger unexpectedly raised his hips. Though his head was forced down, Sylvee came up to take gulp of air, while he gathered himself, he kept his hand wrapped around the man's cock. The stranger didn't seem to mind Sylvee's short break, his lips were set apart, his eyes were glossed over, clearly lost in the ecstasy of it all. Spit and droplets of precum stained Sylvee's red lips, his makeup was smeared and his hair had fallen out of his ponytail… With one hand occupied there wasn't much he could do about it. Not that it mattered, all Sylvee needed was his mouth. Ready to finish what he started, Sylvee leaned down only to be stopped by a familiar face.

"Sylvee?" Asya's shout is distant and faint due to the roar of music.

The blood in his body froze, his heart stopped beating and the air in his throat formed a thick knot.

Sylvee blinked, his occupied hand came to a sudden halt and quickly returned to his side as if burned. From head to toe, his body shook. Seconds away from crying, his bottom lip wobbled. This wasn't how he wanted to be found, this wasn't how he wanted to be seen by Asya…

Asya came closer, only stopped because of the wooden table in his way, "Where is everybody else?"

His face burned, it burned…Like scorching fire, embarrassment licked at his face, Sylvee awkwardly gaped like a fish before his brain formed an appropriate reply, "I don't know. I lost sight of them." 

At his reply, Asya arched an eyebrow, dark eyes shifting from Sylvee's face to the man seated beside his friend. By Asya's calm expression, it was obvious to Sylvee that he hadn't noted anything out of the ordinary. Asya remained oblivious. Asya didn't care enough to notice the shift in Sylvee's goofy personality.

Sylvee clenched his fists and sat upright. The pit of his stomach groaned in pain, his chest ached and his head spun with the familiar sting of a migraine. 

Though the longer Asya lingered, the more he took in. Perhaps, an understanding would've been reached if Kiel hadn't interrupted Asya's thought process. Kiel pressed his hand to Asya's back, and his lips to Asya's ear "I think I found them."

Kiel's attention is briefly drawn away from his boyfriend and focused on a disheveled Sylvee.  Sylvee watched as Kiel's eyes lit up with the burning knowledge Asya failed to achieve. A sheepish grin overtook Kiel's face…What in the world had they walked in on? Ashamed, Kiel wrapped an arm around Asya and pulled his boyfriend away with a muttered excuse, "Let's get something to drink."

Stunned by the short exchange, Sylvee watched as Asya and Kiel were absorbed into the crowd. Besides him, the stranger shifted and cleared his throat, "Friends of yours?"

Sylvee blinked, only now remembering he wasn't alone. At some point, the man had buttoned up his jeans and composed himself long enough to question Sylvee. 

Slowly, the shock and shame he'd previously felt drained from his body, down his legs and through his toes. It was replaced with the yearning need to be anything but human. To crack and unravel into mistakes, guts and tipsy drugs was all Sylvee wanted to obtain. An impish smirk graced his mouth as his fingers toyed with the buttons on the stranger's shirt, "Want to get out of here?"

In a rush of hasty, open-mouthed kisses, the pair slipped out the back door and left the buzzing club in the dust. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── 

There's countless of bloody red bite marks on Sylvee's milky thighs. His skin is bruised in a shade of rotten-yellow and sprained-purple. 

The bite marks bleed. 

Neirin wrinkled his nose in distaste, "Was he trying to eat you?"

Sylvee snorted and gently pushed Micah's hands away. When Anzu frowned, Micah sighed and again pressed the cloth against Sylvee's bleeding thighs. This time, Sylvee was too drained to shoo Micah off. He closed his eyes, his head lolled onto the toilet seat. His stomach churned as a wave of nausea rolled from his head to his toes. He didn't want to puke again…Neirin had held his hair back the first time. Micah had held his hair back the second time.

"Where is he?" Anzu's gritty tone cut through the short-lived silence. 

"I don't know…He left as soon as we finished." Sylvee tiredly explained.

"And um…Where did…Um…This…" Neirin's nervousness was not only obvious in his voice but visibly displayed when his twitchy fingers messed with the frames of his glasses, "You know…Where did you…?"

Anzu rolled his eyes and Micah chuckled, "Where did you two fuck?" 

Neirin mouthed a silent 'thank-you' and Micah waved it off with his free hand. 

"…Right outside…"

"Outside the club?" Anzu firmly asked.

"In the alleyway."

Anzu pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Neirin averted his gaze. Micah watched as the cloth in his hand turned maroon. 

The bites on Sylvee's thighs continued bleeding.

"You can't go out lookin' like that." Anzu said as he rustled through his bag. All the band members had similar ones, packed with their uniform, extra clothes and basic hygiene products. Anzu also carried bags of gummy worms in his bag. At the moment, those weren't as important as the pair of sweat pants in his grip. Handing them over to Sylvee, the small boy accepted the folded pants with a timid smile. At the sudden shyness, Anzu arched an eyebrow. How such a sweet boy could behave as reckless as a common whore, Anzu would never know. He supposed Sylvee would always keep him guessing.

Once Micah had thrown the blood stained cloth in the trash, Sylvee had stood and slipped on the sweatpants. They were a little too big on him. The fabric gathered awkwardly around his ankles, making it a little hard to walk.

Anzu dropped into a crouch, his fingers collected the extra fabric and neatly folded it into itself. Sylvee's cheeks burned pink, "You don't have to do that Anzu…"

"Don't I?" Though Anzu's face was obscured by a veil of dreadlocks, Sylvee could hear the frustration in his voice.

Both Neirin and Micah shot Sylvee sympathetic looks. 

With the ends of the sweatpants neatly rolled, Sylvee thanked Anzu. The small group filed out of the bathroom and into the busy bar, though they didn't get very far. Before they could exit the building, Asya crossed their path. Anzu regraded his band mate with a nod. Asya returned the greeting with a nod of his own.

Asya didn't get a chance to greet the rest of the group, his attention was instantly drawn to Sylvee's clothing. 

"You came here in shorts." 

Sylvee beamed from ear to ear. Anzu glanced away. Sylvee's ability to lie with a smile on his face could be quite unsettling.

"I spilled a drink on myself! Anzu lent me clothes." 

For a moment, Asya seemed satisfied with Sylvee's answer. It wasn't until his brow knitted with concern that Sylvee inwardly sighed. Had he said something wrong? 

"You're bleeding…"

"W-what?" 

Before Sylvee could react, Asya wrapped a hand around his wrist and dragged him closer. Large red blotches stained the gray fabric. From the inside of his thighs, to the skin above his knees, the sweats were covered in blood. Sylvee's heart accelerated. 

"Sylvee, what happened?" Asya asked as his hands wrapped around Sylvee's waist, fingers dancing on the hem of the sweatpants. Thinking twice, Asya eyes turned towards the bathroom, "We need to-"

Sylvee slapped Asya's hands away, flinching when the smack rang in his ears. 

"P-please don't touch me." 

Clearly shocked by Sylvee's minor attack, Asya withdrew his hands and took a step back. Taking advantage of Asya's momentary daze, Sylvee backed away and headed towards the back door, his panic clogging his logical senses. With his heart in his throat, Sylvee shot out the door.

Asya clenched his teeth and attempted to follow after Sylvee but was abruptly held in place by Anzu.

"Kier…Leave it alone." Anzu's calm voice cut through the tension.

Tension Asya wasn't willing to dismiss, not yet, "Leave it alone!? He's fucking hurt! I can't leave that alone!"

Tightening his grip, Anzu pushed Asya against a wall and growled out his words, "I said leave it. Cool your fuckin' head before you seek him out."

Asya met Anzu's glare with one of his own, "Fine." 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── 

With his head tucked between his scraped knees, Sylvee sobbed. Neirin wrapped an arm around the crying boy. 

"It's too much." Sylvee wailed and choked on his breath.

"I know…I'm sorry." Neirin softly replied as he rubbed Sylvee's damp back. 

"I hate seeing them together. They're everywhere…" 

This time, Neirin didn't reply, instead, he tucked Sylvee deeper into his arms and allowed his friend to cry his heart out into his chest. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───   

From a distance, Anzu watched as Sylvee fell apart. That's all he can really do. Sylvee is drowning but he refused to be rescued, if Anzu were to offer, he'd lose his head. 

Anzu had watched as strangers pressed Sylvee into walls, he'd watch as they pumped him full of alcohol, he'd watch as they stumbled out of clubs and into the dark streets…Streets he couldn't follow Sylvee on. Now, he watched as Sylvee cried up a storm. 

"Do you hate me?" Kiel asked.

"You know I don't." Anzu answered.

When Kiel had stepped out of the bar and stood besides him, Anzu had noticed but hadn't bothered to acknowledge his brother's presence.

"I feel like you do." Kiel insisted.

"I don't. If I did, you'd be dead." Anzu said. 

Kiel nibbled on the rim of his plastic cup, "Sylvee likes Asya."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement. A glaring fact.

Anzu didn't confirm or deny it. He didn't have to.

"It’s annoying." Kiel continued, "I shouldn't feel guilty over it, yet I do...Heartbreak, it can't be this bad. He's exaggerating, right?" 

Anzu snorted.

Kiel frowned, "That doesn't tell me anything."

Tipping his head back, Anzu breathed out. His brother didn't quite understand what it was like to have a name lodge deep in your heart like a bullet, he didn't understand what it was like to ache and hurt over an unattainable love. It wasn't a bad thing. But it wasn't a good thing either. 

Anzu stared as Sylvee set his life on fire, he thinks, it’s understandable only because he’s thought of doing the same when Micah is glued to his phone, absorbed in Priya and Priya only. He doesn’t act on his feelings only because Kiel needed his brother. Anzu almost wanted to share this bit with his brother: Everything I do, I do for you. 

Sylvee is alone. No one looks after him. Such a fragile, messy thing...Tossed aside to rot in his mistakes. And so, Anzu took care of him too.

Kiel continued frowning. 

Minutes go by and the unfolding silence is broken by Anzu's soft chuckle. He draped an arm around Kiel, "Come on, let's go get somethin' to eat, I'm starvin'."

[skinnedhearts]

one sided compromise

As per his side of the agreement with Anzu, Asya manages to gather an unsuspecting Micah into following him home to join for band practice.

Their lives were kinda messed up, when he thought about it. To live in a world where for about 18 years of your life, give or take, you obliged with nothing but a bell to direct you through the course of half your day--- five times a week. In a total of 45 minutes, Monday through Friday, the process was the same in the very last period before classes officially ended until inevitably they were all forced to come back to repeat when the sun rose once more. Truly, their lives were messed up.

Gaze directed away from the outside world where seagulls fought on their campus grounds over scraps of food leftover from lunch and trees lightly swayed in the breeze that was rapidly increasing in heat and dying out, Asya focused between only two things during homeroom period: the world outside and the very slowly ticking clock that rang their dismissal. Time to head home was nearing soon and a change besides the seasons was waiting outside, today marked the start of their band practice with a new member, one that Asya still couldn’t say he was all too thrilled to have.

He supposed, with a thought he’d never speak out loud, that despite his distaste it was still very calming on his nerves to get an eager phone call from Wamu exclaiming in his ear and asking how he managed to get Anzu to agree to join them again. The moment only lasted but a minute before the excitement then turned into a scolding in the shape of a contract making Asya swear that he wasn’t going to blow this great shot their band had regained once more.

It sucked.

Still, the details on the reintroduction of Anzu into their still very much unnamed band were ones that Asya swore would solely remain between him and Anzu alone. They were simply ones he wasn’t all too thrilled to have agreed to, but again, the deadline for what could be their band’s big break was coming soon; guilt would simply have to be an emotion he dealt with sooner or later… preferably later.

The bell rings and just like puppets latched onto strings do all his classmates rise from their seats, and just like the usual routine that enslaved all their lives, does their teacher call out in sermon how the bell doesn’t dismiss the class, they do. Asya merely scoffs and shoves his phone in his pocket, rising from his seat and throwing his backpack over his shoulder.

Pure autopilot drives him through the crowded halls where the occasional students bump into him, where the occasional students pause in the middle of the hall and block the path, and where the occasional students make Asya want to shove them to the side to get them out of the way before he self combusts and from his ashes burns the entire school to the ground. How he couldn’t wait to never have to come back here again, this last year of high school simply couldn’t go by fast enough. Eventually, through the struggle and pain of his personal space constantly being invaded, does Asya reach his locker where all he needs to do is switch out a couple of things, and it’s freedom to the sanctuary of his garage for the day--- freedom to pound away his stress onto his drums.

A pause.

That’s right… going home alone wasn’t an option today no matter how desperately he wanted to get out and it seemed like just this once, was life willing to shine down on his social and school life. From the end of the hall, detaching himself from a crowd of students who begged him not to go, did Micah pop out with a grin and promise of staying next time for a club he wasn’t even a part of. Asya simply could not relate to that life of constant attention nor did he wish to, ironic for someone who was part of a band.

“You’re still here!” An array of pats come down on Asya’s back when Micah lightly jogs over to his side, face flushed in a rosy hue and constellation of freckles, hair absolutely ruffled with green curls both framing his face and sticking out in wild directions. “I was hoping to catch you before you bolted out of here.”

As per usual, the whispers between students occur all around them when they catch sight of Micah and Asya together. And as per usual, Asya has gotten used to them after so long, that he no longer pays attention to the way people question the sight of the two side by side. He remembers freshman year, before schedules got busy and his time with Micah became sparse. He remembers the time they’d spend together before tennis was a thing and the band was just a pastime that eventually became a serious dream. Asya still recalls the sudden weight that had leapt onto his back in pure excitement as Micah’s voice rang loud in his ear over still being able to recognize him after years of not having seen each other.

“Funny. You saved me the struggle of having to go look for you, was just about to head to the tennis courts too.”

“Oh,” There was a bashful grin on Micah’s face as he rubbed the back of his neck, “I’m actually taking the next two weeks off tennis. Talked to the coach beforehand to find someone else to captain for me, I really need the time after school to study for some exams coming up and I ain’t doing too hot. Good thing our season just ended too, so I won’t fall too behind on practice if I miss the upcoming sessions.”

“I’m not tutoring you.” Asya slams his locker shut, backpack once more being thrown over his shoulder to turn on his heel and face Micah’s pouting and annoyed face, “If that’s why you were seeking me out in the first place, the answer is no.”

“Harsh, but that’s not it!”

Despite their scattered time together in comparison to before, the habit was still the same as they fell into place and began their walk home. Silence from Asya’s side and passing conversations from Micah’s, a few more scattered comments here and there…

“Are they walking home together?” 

“No, don’t be ridiculous, they just happen to be heading the same way.”

“I hope Micah is alright… haven’t you heard the curse that Kier guy carries? Hang out with him and you might as well decide yourself friendless.”

“That explains why he’s rarely seen around others.”

How years hearing ridiculous high school words make you numb of them by the time you’re ready to get out of here.

“I actually wanted to ask if you wanted to hang out after you drop your stuff off at home.” Micah spoke up, now to Asya, the moment they were alone and outside the school gates far from crowds that gave Asya nothing but headaches, “I know it’s last minute, but it’s been awhile since we’ve hung out. Thought it’d be nice to chill somewhere, maybe catch a movie or hit the arcade. Bet I can still kick your ass at the shooting games.”

“And this is your version of studying?” An accusatory raised brow to which Micah scrunched up his nose and stuck his tongue out.

“It ain’t like I won’t be sat down later with some boring tutor to go over my notes with.” There’s a weird sadness of sorts in Micah’s defeated shrug to which Asya isn’t sure how to go about. They lived in completely different worlds, to Asya, it was complicated to know how to provide Micah any comfort when certain things Micah would feel, could simply not be relatable to Asya. “It’s cool if you can’t find any time today though. Like I said, it was some last minute plan.”

“You could just come over to my place instead to watch the band practice and hang out.”

Almost as if vines sprouted from the cracks of the sidewalk pavement and wrapped around Micah’s ankles, did he stop walking alongside Asya and hang behind to which Asya himself took a pause to glance at Micah over his shoulder. There was a warm hue to the sight of Micah blinking in surprise, the early setting sun casted an orange tone behind him like a halo to his warm sun kissed skin and contrasted against his green curls like an array of trees being glowed down upon by the sun.

“Really?” The question comes out in a whisper of surprise, “I kinda never really thought I’d end up being invited back into your place after the whole mess happened last time with the fit my folks threw.”

Ah, yes. Asya’s face twisted in distaste, he vividly remembered the way Micah had curiously picked up a guitar in amazement during their break time. At the time, he was warned about the guitar he had picked up, it being a spare one out of the many bunch that Tea sometimes liked to collect much to Poppy’s dismay over them sitting there gathering dust. The simple reason of them being due to how fragile the guitar was, age also being a thing that chips away at the chords and wood. But at the time, Micah had also gleamed in a smile that reassured it would be fine. He struck a cord, nothing happened. He played a random variety of notes without any specific tune, it was all fine. It wasn’t until he decided to play with it in a way of striking down on the strings the very same way it’s seen by rockers, that two weak strings reached their limit and snapped.

The sight was a bloody one to behold and if Asya were to lift Micah’s wrist and peek at it, he could still see the scar around his wrist, thumb, and index finger all on Micah’s hand where the cords had furiously lashed out. Needless to say, Micah’s parents were furious when Tea had called them up to explain what had happened and refused to have Micah ever step foot again into Asya’s house for fear of next time: Micah losing his entire hand. An exaggeration that had Asya fuming for weeks at having his family called dangerous and uneducated and Micah swarmed with guilt at the offense his parents had caused.

A situation like that had caused tension between the two boys for a while, for how does one go about having your family insulted so violently over a situation that you didn’t even start and you had warned about. Asya knew his anger was just slightly misplaced and Micah was not the one that had scorned out such words, but there was still a bitter twist in the pit of his stomach at the thought that if Micah had listened, then he wouldn’t have had to watch the way Tea calmly guided Poppy away from Micah’s very upstuck parents sticking their noses in the air and calling the band a bunch of hooligans and their guardians good for nothing.

So it was very much to Asya’s surprise when Micah still showed up a sudden day after school, drenched in rain and eyes blown wide from surprise over his own action of running out of the school campus instead of waiting for his usual ride home, to breathlessly apologize for not having listened when he should have. The apology had come out in a rush to which Asya couldn’t understand half of it, but it was enough to drench out the anger directed towards Micah for the incident.

Your parents are still shit.

And I am not gonna refuse you on that matter, dude.

“You can come,” Asya reassured, cutting his past reminiscing short with a nudge of his head signaling Micah to keep walking after him. “But you’re not touching any instruments.”

“Damn, and here I was hoping to get my hands on your drums this time.”

“Yeah, real funny, aren’t you?”

A grin and Micah playfully nudged Asya with his elbow to which Asya blocked with his hand. And as the sun kept setting and their shadows kept expanding outwards in front of them, did their laughter and conversation blend into the start of the evening with one unaware of the sight that was to come and the other hoping the upcoming situation wouldn’t be one to backfire on their friendship.

[skinnedhearts]

and so, he begged

Wamu convinces Anzu to join his band for a quick practice in hopes of landing a permanent (and highly needed) guitarist. Anzu is just really gay.

The mask on his face felt uncomfortable. Nimble fingers toyed with the thin straps tight against his skin and the outer shell of his ear. Anzu fumbled with the cloth, two minutes later, he accepted defeat. Thin mask lowered and tucked under his chin, Anzu leaned back against the school's bricked wall and slipped three gummy worms into his mouth. Slowly, he chewed the candy. From his spot (an emergency stair case smacked between the chemistry lab and the music room) Anzu had the perfect view of the outskirts of the baseball field and the complete layout of the school's fancy tennis courts. 

A practice session was in play. 

Anzu doesn't care for the sport, he found it dull and quite pointless…His eyes are glued to the first court where a player rolled his shoulders and fixed his stance. Green curls of hair hugged his face, his unreadable expression made Anzu frown. The distance blurred the details and it would continue doing so until Anzu gathered the courage to infiltrate the tennis' benches. For now, he settled for hard to distinguish actions and ant sized scenes. 

Picking a red and yellow gummy from the plastic bag in his hands, Anzu chewed on the worm's head and promptly slurped it down like a noodle. Absorbed in his daily activities, he hardly noticed when a skinny boy waltzed up the stairs and plopped himself down two steps below. It wasn't until the boy cleared his throat that Anzu lowered his head, a green gummy hanged from between his lips. 

"Hello! My name is Wamu!" Wamu eagerly greeted, "You don't know me! But I know you!" 

Anzu arched an eyebrow. A row of dreadlocks slid from his shoulders and hugged his handsome face once he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, "Do you now?"

"Yup!" nodded Wamu, "I've seen you around and er-" Wamu's forehead wrinkled in hesitation, "…Heard things about you."

Intrigued, Anzu's lips twitched upwards, "All good things?" 

"Not entirely." Wamu solemnly admitted before he perked up and beamed from ear to ear, "But I'm not here to talk about shitty rumors!" 

Scrambling closer, Wamu scooted up a step, and then another, until he was seated besides Anzu, who blankly stared at the flamboyant boy. Once he was settled, Wamu stretched his short legs out, tipped his head back and basked in the warm sun. 

Silence filled the space between the two boys. Above their heads, the limbs of a tree trembled and as it swayed in the breeze, sunlight slipped between the leafs and branches. Illuminated spots of light danced across their shoulders, legs and shoes. The chirps of an army of cicadas drifted through the warm, summer afternoon and there they sat, in a shared, short-lived silence. 

Unbothered by the newly (and unfamiliar) obtained company, Anzu slid another gummy worm into his mouth, frowning slightly when he noticed the plastic packet running low on candy. Savoring his last gummy, he found his attention drawn back to the courts. The green haired tennis player stood surrounded by teammates and Anzu didn't have to be near by to know he was joyfully laughing. 

"Where's your guitar?" Wamu finally asked. 

"Home." Anzu dryly answered. 

"You always have it with you though!" 

"Not today."

"Why not? You practice up here, don't you."

Anzu would've found Wamu's extensive knowledge regarding his personal life troubling if it weren't for the rumors circling their school, because really, Anzu had heard them all before: He's a drug lord, a thief, a murderer, a low-life, dirt-poor bastard, a part-time model, a homeless bum, a playboy, a plagiarizer…The rumors go on and on, most gravitate around fear or admiration and some held more truth than others. 

While he could speak out and address the hushed whispers, Anzu preferred not to. Clearing his name meant acceptance and acceptance led to unwanted friendships. Of course, every once in awhile, Anzu would cross paths with red-cheeked girls, who shyly bowed their heads as they bashfully twisted their fingers through their hair and unloaded heart felt confessions of love…All which Anzu would turn away with a simple word: Nah. 

After, came the bomber jacket cladded jocks, with their toothy grins and worn out insults, all which were ignored by Anzu. His brother, Kiel, had said it was borderline harassment, something Anzu had dismissed with a shake of his head.

The ugly words, dirty glares and mocking laughs didn't bother him; the world is much too loud, they're all so small and Anzu's head is stuck in cotton candy clouds. Half of the time, he's swimming in a lake of drugs, the smoke drips from the point of his teeth and the edge of his tongue, it's thick and blinding when pressed against his skin…His peeling skin, or at least, Anzu felt his skin recoil and later expand like the shedding of a snake. It's partly the drugs and when it's not, it comes down to his fragile immune system and aching body. He's always in pain, it always hurt, it always stung…

"Anzu?" Wamu's bright, pink eyes blocked his view. 

Though Wamu's face was uncomfortably close to his, Anzu kept his distaste under wraps.

Next, came the weirdos, the over-the-top, friendly, weirdos. Besides Wamu, there was a blue haired boy who loved to shove plates of food in Anzu's empty hands. The blue haired boy would giggle as he cheerfully explained his mistake: Oh, I made too much food again! It's really good! You should try it! 

Anzu saw right through the boy's white lies, he knew what the other was up to, he could almost taste the pity and sympathy leaking from his wide smile…Anzu accepted the food with a nod and moved on. 

However, Wamu wasn't here to offer him food. 

"I practice when I have time." Anzu said.

"Aaaaand…You're busy right now?" Wamu sang.

"Yes." 

He's not busy. His favorite past time involved the soft hum of his guitar, the vibration of chords under his fingers as he fully focused on the green haired tennis player in the distance. There's inspiration behind Micah's fluid movements…There's art behind his curly hair, freckled skin and skinned knees…There's a song hidden on his bottom lip and there's untold lyrics in the dip of his hips. Perched on the stairs, those far off stairs, Anzu watched as his crush bared his teeth and ripped his heart apart with a swipe of his racket, because at some point, the tennis ball was replaced with Anzu's bleeding love.

"You don't look busy to me." Wamu insisted with a lopsided grin. 

Finally, Anzu forced his gaze away from the tennis courts and onto Wamu's eager face, "What do you want from me kid?" 

"Kid?" Wamu wrinkled his nose, "We're in the same grade!" When his question was met with a bored stare, Wamu cleared his throat and continued onto business, "I know you're really good on guitar!"

Anzu shrugged, "That's just a rumor."

"But I've heard you play at the tattoo shop, you-"

A growl vibrated in Anzu's throat, "How do you know about the tattoo shop?"

Completely unphased by Anzu's sudden display of emotions, Wamu carried on, chipper as ever, "My older brother has loads of tattoos! We recently made an appoint at The Heartstained Room, don't you remember me?" he asked, wide eyes as round as buttons, his head fell to the side, "We talked for a bit!" 

Again, Anzu shrugged, "Shop's always packed."

"You were cleaning your other guitar, the electric one, and I asked if you'd ever be down to play in a band and you, um…Shrugged." 

"Sounds about right."

Wamu puffed out his cheeks, "Well," his voice shook and slowly, it regained its confidence, "Join my band!"

"You're…In a band?" Anzu asked, disbelief lacing the question.

"Yeah!" Bouncing to his feet, Wamu fist bumped his own chest and posed, "Don't I look like your typical lead singer?"

No, Anzu had not bothered to take in Wamu's appearance when his vision was filled to the brim with crispy clean, white, tennis uniforms and brand name sneakers. As Wamu stuck his leg out and stretched his arms above his head, Anzu's eyes skipped from Wamu's dirty combat boots, his ripped, skinny jeans to his faded, black leather jacket with too many buckles and rounded studs to count. His hair was decorated in bright, streaks of pink which made him look too much like a colorful skunk. 

Anzu leaned back, his uninterested tone tore through Wamu's sparkling aura, "I ain't into the techno bizz."

Wamu's mouth fell open, he gasped and stomped his foot, "We are NOT a techno band! We're a rock band! The best of the best!"

"What's the name?"

"..Huh?"

"The name of your band." 

"Oh! That's…" Wamu hanged his head in shame, "We don't have one…YET!" The 'yet' was said with an excited shout as he brought his fists to his sides and hopped about, "We'll have one soon though!"

"Sounds real fuckin’ messy."

"It's not!" Wamu reassured Anzu with a big, dazzling grin, "We're really good! We just can't decide on a name."

Anzu nodded, "Cool."

Wamu's smile broke into a pout, "So?"

"So what?"

"Will you join us." Wamu hopefully asked.

"Nah." 

"Pleassseeeeeeeeeeeeeeee….Pretty pleaseeeeee, join us for one practice! You can judge us yourself."

Anzu collected the empty plastic bag, now void of gummy worms, and threw it into his bag, "I ain't got the time to be playin' made believe rock bands with you and your friends." 

With the simple rejection out in the open, Anzu collected his belongings and stood, but before he could take a step, Wamu wrapped his arms around his left leg. Like a drowning man, the small boy clung onto him, head angled upwards as distraught inked his pleading face, "Anzu…pleaseeeeeeee we need you!"

If Anzu had doubted it before, there was no question about it now: Wamu was one-hundred percent one of the weird ones.

"I ain't bullshittin' when I say I don't have the time-"

"It won't take long! Just a couple of songs!"

"I don't-"

"ANZU PLEASE!" Wamu exclaimed, "PLEASE I'LL DO WHATEVER YOU WANT!"

"I don't want anythin'." Anzu calmly replied.

"PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEE. I'll hold on for as long as I have to!"

"I have to get to work kid. Can't be late for that."

"Guess I'm coming along!" Wamu said as he hugged Anzu's leg tightly.

Anzu rolled his eyes, "…You’re actin' like a brat."

"…I know but…" Wamu's eyes twinkled with tears, "This is important to me. Come on, there must be something I can do for you in return."

Tugging his mask over his mouth, Anzu then cursed his weak body…Wamu was a small boy and if Anzu wasn't currently aching and coming down with the flu for the 3rd time that month, he would've picked Wamu by the collar and placed him aside. Seconds away from kicking Wamu off, the distance glee of a cheer caught Anzu's attention. In the tennis courts, Micah celebrated the end of perfect practice game. The tennis player threw his shirt off and used it to wipe his sweaty face. Anzu's skin burned. Swallowing down an awkward hitch in his voice, Anzu then addressed Wamu.

"Are you friendly with the tennis team?"

"Yes, I know most of them." Wamu blinked his innocent eyes, clueless to what Anzu had in mind. Anzu previously noted how oblivious and stuck in his own world Wamu tended to be and while it was annoying, it had it's charming strides. 

"What about their captain? You know him?" 

"Micah!? Of course I know him! He's pretty good pals with my best friend!" 

"Your best friend?" 

Wamu nodded, "He's our drummer! You'll like him!"

The drummer, all he needed to do was talk to the drummer…A plan fell into place inside Anzu's head. 

"Cool. What time do you want to meet up?"

Wamu's eyes nearly popped out of his head, "A-are you serious!?" Much too caught up in the moment, Wamu didn't question why or what had made Anzu sing a different tune, "W-whatever time works for you! We practice every night after school so we're all free whenever you want to drop by and-"

Anzu cut Wamu off, "How about tomorrow?"

"Yes! Yes! Tomorrow is perfect!" Wamu released Anzu's leg and instead hopped up to wrap his arms around Anzu's waist, "Thank you! Thank you so much!" 

Anzu allowed the boy to squeeze him tightly before he lightly shoved him away,

"Aight, knock it off or I won't show up."

Not having to be told twice, Wamu stepped aside and continued spewing a storm of thank yous. Even when Anzu made his way down the stairs and disappeared around the corner, Wamu continued to drown him in gratitude.