#i don’t think so bc the only other jewelry i have is horseshoe and closing those little shits is EVIL

[evildeerboy]

idk why but behind my ear was getting really irritated by my earring but i didn’t have anything without a sharp closure. but i did have a 16g faux CBR intended for my septum. i’ve never attempted to go up a size in my ear before so i was a little nervous but that bitch just slid right in. what the fuck. no way it’s a 16g hole 😭

[ruffboijuliaburnsides]

have you ever dressed up for halloween or for like a costume party? what's your favorite thing you've worn? do you like wearing jewelry? do you listen to podcasts?what's an interesting historical event you know a little about? when do you feel the most comfortable? do you have any piercings or tattoos? Are there any you'd like to get? what's one thing you're proud of?

Wow, All in huh??? SO MANY QUESTIONS.

1) Have I ever dressed up for halloween or for a costume party? NNNNNNNNOT REALLY. I wasn’t allowed to do Halloween after the age of like. Five? Because my parents got MORE religious than they’d already been and they decided halloween was evil. And then as an adult I didn’t have a lot of local friends or money so... not really most of the time. BUT! There was ONE YEAR when I was in my mid-20s, that my wife and I went to a Halloween party with some local friends. She was Death of the Endless, we dyed her hair black, I did her eye makeup, there was a cardboard-covered-in-tinfoil ankh necklace and everything. I that year dressed up as Delirium to go with her. I bought fishnets that I tore a couple holes in, had some clompy boots, bought a skirt and shirt at the thrift store, and dyed my hair... like Half of it was red, half of it was just random spots of bleached, blue, and green. (I actually went to a job interview the next day and frantically reassured the interviewer that I was bleaching my hair and dying it a more natural color later that week) It was very fun as a costume tho. OH tho last year for halloween I loaned my wife a purple dress I sewed for myself and we got her some white tights and a white scarf, and I dug out my purple henley and and jeans some bandaids for my face and fingers, and we went as Hawkeye for Halloween. She was Kate Bishop and I was Clint Barton. That was probably my favorite even tho it was so low-effort. 1.5) On its own line, I think this “what’s the fave you’ve worn” was meant to be about the costumes, which I answered above, but IN GENERAL the thing I’ve worn that’s my favorite has been

Do I like wearing jewelry? I do like wearing jewelry! I need to get new earrings bc the ones I had got lost, but I used to always wear like, small gauge horseshoe earrings with the balls that screw onto the ends? I just lost the balls on the ends. I also wear a necklace every day. And I used to have a wedding band but I don’t have one that fits currently and it drives me NUTS bc even years without it I feel  like I should have a ring on that finger.

Do I listen to podcasts? I listen to podcasts off and on! Mostly MBMBAM, The Magnus Archives, The Penumbra Podcast, and Faculty of Horror. We relisten to early WtNV to sleep sometimes, and I keep meaning to catch up on TAZ, but that’s not active yet.

What’s an interesting historical event I know something about? ...Gosh that’s hard. Like, I know some stuff about historical eras or cultures but EVENTS??? Hmmm... I. Fuck. I abruptly cannot think of ANY HISTORICAL EVENT AT ALL. I’m a fucking History Major this is embarrassing. Uh okay so... I can’t think of anything. I’m so sorry. XD

When do I feel most comfortable? When I’m curled up in bed and have Birdie pressed against my back with her arm around my waist. Bonus points for literally any of our other partners in bed as well, but that happens so rarely. :(

Do I have any piercings or tattoos? I DO! Piercings are easiest. I have my left lobe pierced 3 times (though all but the first might be closed) and my right 2 times (tho ditto), and the upper shell of my left ear once (but again, closed). TATTOOS gosh, ok I have, in chronological order: a) a sort of cross between a cross and a peace sign on the inside of my left ankle. I got it when I was 18 and still a Good Christian Girl, my church bff designed it, it stood for peace in Christ, and the only thing stopping me from trying to get a coverup is the fact that it’s REALLY heavy/thick black work, and the location which was really painful. b) the kanji 天使 (which translates to “angel”) on my right inner forearm, over self harm scars specifically. I got this when I was 19 and back living with my bigoted conservative family and suicidal and trying to remind myself that I was loved. I also picked it out of a book and was lucky that book had the right kanji tbh, but I picked it bc my parents wouldn’t be able to read it, and it meant “angel” which was Birdie’s pet name for me at the time, and she was living across the country from me. If I could go back, I would get a different angel-themed tattoo in the same place, but at least I have the proper kanji for it if I’m going to have an ill-advised Japanese tattoo. c) a little curled ivy tramp stamp I picked out of a book in a little tattoo shop on St. Mark’s Place in NYC at like 2am, do NOT ask, it was dumb. Thankfully easier to work into a larger piece if I ever have the money for a back piece. d) text that is now near-illegible (due to the delicate nature of the script and the time since I got it) on the back of my left shoulder. It says “the universe has been waiting for me” in Birdie’s handwriting. It’s a line from Donna Noble’s last episode of Doctor Who, and I had FEELINGS. e) text on the inside of my left wrist that says “alive or dead, the truth won’t rest.” specifically in courier new. It’s a quote from @seananmcguire​‘s book FEED, and Birdie has a matching tattoo on her wrist as well. f) A tattoo of Coyote and the Sun, with color, on the outer side of my right calf. It’s the only colored Tattoo I have. I plan to get a semi-matching tattoo on my left calf that is El-Ahrairah and the Black Rabbit of Inle doing sort of a yin-yang esque circle chasing each other. it’s a Trickster thing, tying animals commonly considered  to be Tricksters with stuff that is meaningful to me. Coyotes have always been important to me, I grew up in Arizona there were always coyotes about and I always loved them, and then Watership Down was a surprise true love of a book when I was a teen.

Are there any piercings/tattoos I’d like to get? Piercings not so much. Maybe an eyebrow one day idk. Tattoos tho, goddamn, I’ve got SO MANY PLANS. I want to get text tattoos - either part of a larger text-heavy design or separately - of “It’s chaos, be kind”, “You are not obligated to complete the work, neither are you free to abandon it”, and “Do good recklessly”. Other quotes I’m sure but those three specifically. Obviously the Watership Down/Rabbit the Trickster tattoo I mentioned. Also a design from one of the tattoos on one of the guards of the Pazyriyk ice maiden. Also ngl I kinda want to get the sigils for witcher signs on the backs of my fingers. Some people get “THUG LYFE” or “FUCK YOU”, I get “I WILL FUCK YOU UP (in symbolic form)” XD

What’s one thing I’m proud of? The fact that I’m alive. ...Seriously, I’m quite proud of that, I’ve had some shit years in my life, and I’ve nearly not made it more than once. I’m proud as HELL that I’m here. I’m proud that I’m in college. I’m proud that I’m writing again.

Thank you for all these questions! So many, lmao, but I loved it, thank you. ^_^

[spikekat]

hi guys i finished all my classes, here’s the story i turned in for my creative writing final. some soft baby gays do punk stuff and talk about their feelings. there’s some blood bc of the punk stuff, it’s like... 3.5k words long

.

Reciprocity

Mason calls himself ten different kinds of stupid as he scales the sycamore tree, weaving his narrow frame through the narrower branches. In his head, he can see Isaac’s mouth, never smiling in class, twisting into a sneer, his eyes cold. Laughter echoes, the mocking sound that rings off school hallways. Mason tries to tell himself that even if it is a trap, a trick, the worst Isaac can do is humiliate him, and if it’s not a trap--

He shivers in his thin t-shirt and tells himself it’s the wind. He just, he doesn’t want to fuck this up.

Isaac’s window-- or, supposedly Isaac’s window-- looms through the sparse multicolored leaves, almost glowing in the dying light, like a portal to another world. Mason edges along a branch, sinking his nails into the soft bark to keep his balance. It digs right back, splinters digging into the skin under his fingernails. He gets to the end, precariously balanced, and leans over the two foot gap but before he can knock, Isaac throws the window open. Mason flinches away from the sudden artificial light and nearly loses his balance.

“It’s six-thirty,” Isaac says.

“Traffic,” Mason says, because it’s easier than saying he’d needed almost a half hour in the woods to talk himself into actually showing up, and then another ten to figure out how to approach the house without being seen. Even with the dying sunlight of autumn on his side, any one of of Isaac’s neighbors would just have to peer around their lace curtains and the whole night would be over before it began, Isaac probably under house arrest or shipped away or just hating Mason for getting him into trouble. “Sorry.” It’s probably obvious, how bad he is at this, how he can’t talk like a real person.

“It’s whatever,” Isaac says, glancing over Mason’s shoulder to the darkness beyond. Somewhere, not too distant, a door opens and Mason’s heart rate ratchets skyward.

“Is that--”

“Get in,” Isaac hisses, moving to the side, keeping the window open. Mason eyes the thinness of the branch, the distance from himself to the windowsill. “Come on,” Isaac stretches the last syllable, and Mason tells himself it’s nerves making him sound so annoyed.

Mason throws calculation as well as caution to the wind; he jumps. He lands half-in and half-out of the window, flopping and wobbling like a fish on a line. His ribs scrape the windowsill painfully; he hopes his shirt, twenty bucks at David Allan Coe’s free park show years back, survives unscratched.  

“Quickly-- ” Isaac darts a look back at his bedroom door.

“I’m trying,” Mason hisses back. His accent sounds abrasive against Isaac’s smooth Nebraskan syllables. There’s a leaf stuck in his hair and it’s tickling his neck. Mason tries to shake it off and pull himself up all at once, but his arms give way at the last second. He barely manages to catch himself; his shoulders scream in effort.

“So this is why you didn’t try out for the wrestling team,” Isaac says, like Mason can’t see his arms trembling from the effort of holding the window open.

“Shut up and get out of the way,” Mason says. He sounds-- teasing-- to his own ears and is immediately regretful; he knows better than to open his mouth, to think he can just get away with shit like that. He kicks, wiry arms straining to pull himself in. The windowsill scrapes Mason’s stomach as he finally works up enough momentum to slide through the window and onto the floor. He lands on the off-white carpet with an thud.

They both freeze; distantly, Mason can hear footsteps, but they’re slow, languid, and they soon fade. He breathes out hard with relief. Isaac cuts him a look, his mouth is pressed tight, like he’s trying not to smile. Mason bites down on his own grin, fighting to be reserved, makes himself sit up slow. He pushes his fair hair out of his eyes; the leaf falls into his lap. The bright red makes his scuffed jeans look even more faded. He twirls the stem between his fingers to give them something to do. The dry Texas air blows the scent of loblolly pine into the room.

“Nice place,” he says. It’s not untrue; it’s clean and spacious. Real spacious: a desk against the wall, a chair for the desk, and a bed next to the window, all of it straight-from-catalogue. No posters on the walls, no photographs, no ambiguous stains. The only personal items are a few shirts, all black, piled at the foot of the bed. Isaac’s sheets are sky blue, as if for a younger boy than Isaac’s sixteen, and gently wrinkled, indented where Isaac must have been sitting. They look soft. Mason makes himself look away. Black dirt from his trek through the backwoods sticks to the duct tape holding his sneakers together, marring the carpet.

“Thanks,” says Isaac, looking around like he’s seeing the sparsity for the first time. He’s no longer not-smiling, shoulders hunched under his black jacket. His BLACK FLAG backpatch is fraying.

Mason hurries to change the subject. “We doing this?”

“If you’re still down,” says Isaac. He plays with the cuff of his jacket, worrying a stray thread. Still not looking at Mason, like he’s not even worth looking at.

“Of course.” Mason tries not to feel stung; Isaac rarely looks at anyone, always off in his own head. Mason wonders daily what it’s like in there; he wonders if it’s a better place to be than his own. He picks himself off the floor, setting the leaf down. It looks better, brighter, when he’s not holding it. “You got what you need?”

“I should.” Isaac starts for the dresser, rummaging through the top drawer. Mason stands on his toes behind him to watch, because Isaac hasn’t told him not to.

“Nice boxers,” he says without thinking, and considers throwing himself back out the window. His super power might be the ability to ruin everything in under three words. Isaac’s body goes tense. He moves the blue plaid over to reveal a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He passes the lighter to Mason, roots around for the rest without looking at him.

Mason runs a coarse thumb over the head of the lighter, feeling the grooves and the scratches in the metal. It feels like a lighter found on the side of the road rather than stolen or begged from the local 7-11; luck, rather than desperation. Something unnamable flutters in Mason’s stomach.

“You have the jewelry?” Isaac asks, turning. His dark hair has fallen into his face, reminding Mason of blackbird feathers.

Mason nods, fishes in his pocket. He’s chosen a circular barbell, half for the lucky horseshoe shape, and half so he could flip it up to hide from his father. Gold and shiny, bought long before he’d worked up the courage to talk to Isaac in Geometry.

“Cool,” says Isaac. An awkward pause. “It’ll be easier if you sit.”

Mason sits on the bed; the sheets are as soft as he’d imagined. Isaac sets an old tshirt and a loose handful of safety pins down next to him. In Mason’s fantasies, he’d just pulled a safety pin from his jacket to use, and put it back when he was done.

“You nervous?” Isaac asks, taking the lighter from Mason’s fingers, trading it for the shirt. His skin is rough; worker’s hands, Mason’s father would say.

Mason’s heart rate picks up, like it’s finally realized what he intends to do. The lighter sparks twice before flame bursts forth.

“Nope.” Mason digs his fingers into the worn fabric of the shirt, watches Isaac run one of the safety pins through the tiny flame. “You’ve done this before, right?”

“More than you have,” Isaac snaps, releasing the flame. Too late, Mason notices his shaking hands. “Give me the ring.” The metal of the safety pin is black and shiny.

Mason fumbles the gold ring into Isaac’s hand, hopes it isn’t damp with his sweat, or if it is, that Isaac won’t comment on it. His nose tingles in anticipation.  

“Tilt your head back,” says Isaac. Mason stares at the ceiling, trying to breathe evenly. Isaac puts a hand under his jaw to keep him steady; his hands are just as warm as Mason’s, and the skin of Mason’s neck prickles. Mason can hear his own blood pulsing through his ears. Isaac’s face is inches away from his own.

Mason flinches when Isaac raises his other hand, the one holding the safety pin.

“Don’t move,” Isaac tells him, voice frayed with impatience.

“Sorry,” says Mason, unable to keep the edge of you’re about to stab me with a needle out of his voice. Heat floods his cheeks.

Isaac’s hand tightens on Mason’s jaw. “Deep breath,” he says. Mason closes his eyes and inhales.

The needle going through hurts more than Mason thought it would, but he keeps himself frozen. Something hot trickles down his upper lip and drips onto his shirt. Belatadly, he brings the shirt in his lap up to catch the rest. His eyes sting.

“Don’t freak out,” Isaac says, unsteady. Mason closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see his blood getting all over Isaac’s fingers as Isaac pushes the ring through the hole made by the pin. It hurts worse than the actual piercing. Mason squeezes the frayed tshirt until he’s sure it’s going to tear, and then Isaac breathes out hard and steps back.

“It’s in,” he says. Mason opens his eyes. The world seems a little brighter than it had before.

“Ouch,” Mason says. His nose stings, like after a punch, before the ache sets in. The weight of the ring is a strange sensation, something alien inside his skin. “Sorry for the blood, everywhere.” He dabs at his upper lip and hopes he’s making it better, not worse.

“Sometimes that happens,” says Isaac, but he sounds just as wobbly as Mason feels. “Here, let me--” he leans in again to take the shirt back. His eyes are polished obsidian. Mason stops breathing when Isaac takes a corner of the fabric and wipes at Mason’s face. The closer the shirt gets to his stinging nose the tenser he feels, but Isaac doesn’t even brush against it.

“Very professional,” Mason says around a grin, after Isaac has finished his work. “How do I look?”

“Not at all professional,” says Isaac.

“Fuck yes.” Now that the worst is over, Mason can’t keep the laughter out of his voice.

“Glad you like it,” says Isaac. Endorphins must be contagious; he’s not-smiling again.

“Do you have a mirror around here? Let me see,” Mason demands, standing now, too excited to be still, to be quiet. Isaac digs around in his dresser and comes up with a hand mirror.

The change is small but startling. The gold through his septum brings out his freckles and the lightness of his eyes, draws attention to the symmetry of his cheekbones. There’s still blood stains at the corners of his mouth; he looks like someone he would admire, if he met them on the street. He looks like someone who knows who and what they are, enough that they let a stranger put a needle through their skin.

He absolutely cannot let anyone else see him like this.

“Done admiring yourself?” Isaac asks, light, but Mason looks down, stomach souring. He wanted this; he still wants this.

“Yeah,” he says, voice flat. Unbidden, he pictures his father’s face. Eyes always fixed on something a little above or a little to the right of Mason’s face.

“Is it crooked?” The light has gone out of Isaac’s face; Mason fucking up once again. He wonders if there will ever come a day when he doesn’t turn everything he touches into garbage. Mason glances up; Isaac’s close again, brow furrowed in what could be concern, or could be annoyance.

“It’s not that--” Mason starts, face prickling uncomfortably. Fucking bullshit mixed complexion; no one in his mother’s family blushes every five seconds. “I mean--”

Someone knocks on the door. They both freeze.

“Isaac? Can I come in?”

Isaac, his eyes wide and urgent, stares directly at Mason. Mason’s stomach curls in on itself; he forgets to breathe.

“Uh-- Just a minute!” Isaac’s voice sounds high and unnatural. He grabs Mason by the shoulder and pushes him down, gesturing to the space under the bed.

Mason gets the message and drops to his elbows. He wriggles forward, pushing himself forward with his shoes. His poor shirt.

“Isaac?” The door creaks; not opening, but preparing to open, intent bringing the wood to life.

Isaac gives Mason’s legs a shove, pushing his face into the accumulated dust of years. Mason curls into a ball as best as he can, shoulder shoved up against the box spring painfully. He just barely fits.

“Isaac--” The doors opens. Isaac flings himself onto the bed.

“Sorry, Katya, I was just changing,” Isaac says, all in a rush. Mason opens his mouth, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. He hears soft footsteps; Katya is wearing shoes inside, nice ones, polished and black.

“Sorry to bother you,” Katya says, voice soft. “Were you watching something? I thought I heard voices.” She sounds exactly like Mason imagines a mother should sound. He wonders if that irritates or comforts Isaac.

“Just reading to myself,” Isaac says, a lie so smooth Mason is impressed. “English homework. Sometimes it’s easier to take in if I can hear it, too. Actually, I’m pretty busy with my assignments, so--” Katya is lingering in the doorway; Mason hopes she stays there, doesn’t know how much longer he can keep from sneezing. His nose hurts.

“You know, if ever want help with anything, we’d be more than willing. John used to teach, I can talk to him about it if you want.”

“You don’t have to--”

“Don’t be silly,” she says, and her voice wobbles. Mason has seen her before, from a distance, dropping Isaac and the others off at school one day. He hadn’t thought she looked like a drunk--

“Katya?” Isaac says. He sounds strange through the boxspring. Mason tries to adjust his face, to put less pressure on his cheek, and accidentally gets a mouthful of dust. His eyes water.

Katya shifts her weight, black shoes moving just slightly. Mason tries to focus on them and ignore the tickle in his throat. He cannot cough. He cannot breathe too loud, or sneeze, or scratch the ear that itches like hell.

“Katya, I’m really busy--”

“It’s just, your brother--”

They break off at the same time. Time stops. The room goes still. Mason forgets about his throat; the tension weighs on him all the heavier for lacking the context.

“What about my brother?” The words sound brittle, just a splinter away from shattering to pieces.

Katya’s shiny loafers shift again. “He’s being released soon. Your caseworker just told us today-- they think he might, well, come looking for you.”

“Oh.” Isaac sounds-- hurt. Raw. Ripped open, everything he probably doesn’t want Mason to know audible in that single syllable.

Mason closes his eyes. He imagines being anywhere else.

Isaac audibly clears his throat. “Okay,” he says. “Uh, my homework--”

“--of course,” says Katya, desperate to get away now. Mason wonders how he could’ve mistaken her distress for drunkenness. “If you need anything, if you want to talk, or if you just don’t want to be alone-- you know where to find us.” The black shoes turn. “We’re glad to have you here, Isaac.”

Isaac doesn’t say anything, but Katya doesn’t seem to expect him to. She shuts the door when she leaves; it clicks, too loud in the suddenly silent room.

Mason pretends to himself for a solid ten seconds that Isaac has forgotten all about him, that he’ll die under this bed, but then the faint pressure is lifted off his back and Isaac says,

“You can come out now.”

Mason shuffles his way out from under the bed. The room is brighter than he remembers, giving him an excuse to avoid Isaac’s eyes. Katya left behind the faint scent of lavender fabric softener. Mason hates her a little bit.

Isaac is standing next to his unmarred and unused desk, looking just as empty. He’s staring at nothing in particular, shoulders round and slumped. Even the safety pins look dull. Mason glances toward the window and the woods beyond, and then carefully sits on the bed.

“Your brother?” he says, forcing his voice to sound almost casual.

“Is in prison,” says Isaac. Monotone. “He raised me.”

“My dad was in prison for a little while,” Mason says. “When I was a lot younger. My mom left him, after.” He hates the way he sounds when he says it, the vowels all slurred, the ‘g’ in ‘younger’ so soft it barely exists, the ‘t’ in ‘after’ more a ‘d’.

“What’d he do?”

“Shot someone.”

Isaac nods, still looking at nothing. “My brother’s in jail because of me,” he says.

“What did you do?”

“I wasn’t quiet enough,” he says. His face finally changes, mouth going so tight Mason wonders if his whole face will shatter. “We were hiding, after the place we were staying got busted. Drugs and shit. I was scared, I made a sound, the cops found us. My brother had some stuff on him-- he wasn’t like, using, it was just a way to make some cash-- plus he wasn’t supposed to have me, which made it worse. They didn’t even let me talk to him before sentencing.”

Mason nods, even though Isaac isn’t looking at him. “I’m sorry,” he says. He wants to ask Isaac what his brother’s name is but the words get stuck somewhere in his throat.

“I didn’t think you were going to show up, earlier,” says Isaac, suddenly. Still staring at nothing at all. “I thought-- I don’t know.” Mason thinks he does know.

“I was afraid,” he says. “I thought-- it might be like, a set-up to make fun of me or something.”

Isaac looks at him, frowning. His eyes are bright. “Why would-- nevermind.”

Mason can almost hear him putting it together, the way he vanishes during lunch hour, the distance between him and everyone else like a physical object. How they can all tell there’s something wrong with him, something fucked up and different.

“But you showed up anyway?”

“I wanted this,” he says, shrugging. The words shred his throat, but he forces them out. “You always seem so fucking cool, like you’re above all the school bullshit. Not stuck up or anything, but like you’ve got more important shit in your mind.”

“Oh,” says Isaac, again. Like he’s realized something. Mason swallows hard, but doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch back.

Isaac turns, leans against the desk. He’s looking at Mason differently. There’s intent, now. His face is more open.

“What was it like when your dad got out?” he asks.

“I remember a lot of yelling,” Mason says. He fiddles with the hole in his jeans, trying to recall the exact scene. The question feels like a test. “I don’t think my mom knew he was coming back. He was sober, for once, and kind of quiet. She screamed a bunch of stuff at him when he came to the door, but let him in eventually. He sat down at the kitchen table and asked me about school. He’s never asked me about it since then, or before, or when mom brought me to visit him. He doesn’t even look at me, mostly. I think he was just trying to make conversation.”

“I’m sorry,” Isaac says. Mason feels his cheeks go red, pleased and embarrassed and ashamed, all at once.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Mason says. “Hell, I’m sorry.”

“Your own father doesn’t look at you?” Isaac says. “That’s fucked up.” He says it matter of fact, not flinching away, no judgment toward Mason, just stating a fact.

Mason swallows around the lump in his throat; he wonders if this is what bravery feels like. “Do you want your brother to see you?”

Isaac shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “We weren’t-- we didn’t have the best parents, when we had parents, but my brother made sure I went to school. He made me do my homework next to him every night, said it was more important than dinner, even.”

“He sounds like a good guy,” Mason says, around something like a rock that has grown in his throat. “How old were you when he--?”

“Ten; I knew better. He taught me better.”

“I don’t think he’ll be mad at you,” Mason says.

Isaac’s face closes, and for a second, Mason thinks he’s ruined everything. Isaac curls forward, rubbing at his eyes like he’s hiding tears, but when he drops his hands his face is dry.  

“I don’t know,” he says. “I can see it both ways. I just don’t know.” He shrugs, but it’s a fragile thing.

Mason joins Isaac in leaning against the desk. They stare out the open window to the silhouette of the woods outside, shoulders barely brushing. Mason can see his face reflected in the glass, his new piercing visible. The newness, the real him peeking out from the corner, only he can see it; everyone else just sees metal. Maybe that doesn’t matter.

“Thanks,” Mason says. “For stabbing me in the face, I mean. The other stuff too, but I really appreciate the hole in my face.”

Isaac laughs, a breathy, quiet sound. “Anytime,” he says. “Sorry about, uh, everything else.”

Mason laughs too. Carefully, he lets himself lean against Isaac. The cicadas call out to the moon.

Later, when Mason is biking through the darkened streets, his new piercing flipped up to hide it from view, he can still feel the warmth of Isaac’s shoulder against his own. It keeps him company all the way across town, to the trailer park where his father sleeps, drunk and unaware.