stargazing {nemo and tate}

[[nyte]]

t a t e  s e r a p h i m

My hands burn something awful, a deep throbbing down my palms as my feet swing freely over the side. It's precarious, every time my body tips forward it sends adrenaline pounding through my veins, a kind of sick rush that keeps me awake. The balls of my feet feel as though a thousand needles have been stuck into them and yet I can't feel that either. I've sat and stood and cried. I've run from everything successfully but I still don't know why I'm here. Was my purpose to fall? To finally run from everything? Or was it to torture myself with the prospect of escape, only because I fucking know that I never will My family will die. They'll starve. They'll be hunted down and slaughtered like pigs because that's what I did to those whose families could not pay a member's debt. 

We don't only accept cash, you see? My brothers don't know it, not in its entirety, we expect compensation for every member that up and leaves. Compensation in flesh. You don't just sell your soul to a gang, no, you sell everything. Your children, your mothers and brothers and sisters. Hell, if you had none of those we'll take your lover, your old grandpa dying in the hospital. The asshole in charge of that? In charge of killing them if they resist? Yours truly. 

I sometimes wonder why I haven't considered this sooner. When did my life and the lives of my family become more important than those who were just doing the same? When did living get replaced by surviving? Making it day to day without enjoying a single goddamn minute because I know I'm going to have to see another die, see another limp out of the warehouse an inch from death and I'm not going to do a damn thing different. Their screams will leave me with their final breaths, I won't remember their names or even what they did. It's not so much convincing myself that I don't care anymore, it's convincing myself that I do.

It's a beautiful night tonight, mist from the rapids below wetting my cheeks. Or maybe it's my tears. I'm unable to escape my weakness, it haunts me. A constant weight upon my shoulders, growing heavier each day. Maybe that's why I'm here. I've got a gun in my pocket, it's not like this bridge would do any better of a job. Maybe I just want to feel weightless again. To soar through the air and to feel nothing at all. 

My hands grind against the chain supporting me, sending blood down my wrists once again. In spite of myself I'm leaning forward, further forward than I have in the long hours I've sat here. It's like the world has slowed just for me, finally a time to stop. Time to sit and feel nothing at all. I know I want this more than anything. And although my lips are pressed into a thin line, I'm somehow smiling. Damp fingers slowly losing their vantage point on the metal and I do nothing to stop it-

The bridge shakes with the weight of another body against the railing, my heart nearly leaps into my throat as I violently jerk myself back to a safer position. It burns, managing to pull even more skin off my palms as my eyes find the intruder. Not a peacekeeper, as I had honestly expected, but two glowing eyes from behind all black. Like moons against the velvet night. I look away from it almost instantly, not fearing that it may be a rival or someone who wishes me harm. I don't think I can feel much of anything other than the magnetic pull of the moon itself, pulling me down as it sinks below the horizon. 

"Oi oi oi, nice night, y'know?" 

It's beautiful. 

There's a panic that draws me away from the trance, definite disappointment that I had let freedom slip through my fingers and a rush of relief that forces me to stifle a sob in the fabric of my shirt. I wasn't alone anymore. I knew nothing of this stranger, and honestly I could be lying here come morning with my ass kicked and my gun stolen. Whatever they wanted to do to me, I don't think I'll fight. I don't have enough energy left.

But at least I wasn't alone. 

I don't mean for my voice to be so sharp but perhaps it's my way of assuring that I'd receive no kindness tonight. If I pissed off this guy he'd leave and maybe I'll finally get what I deserve. 

I'd like that a lot. 

"What the fuck are you doing out here in the middle of the night?" I grit my teeth, a growl hiding behind my words. Honestly, I could care less but I just wanted to be left alone. 

And to let an accident happen.

[gamemaker kelsier]

N  E  M  O

The night is dark and in front of me all at once as I step out of my front door. A frozen sort of scent is pervading the air. Nights have begun to get colder and the weight of my responsibility on my shoulders has begun to make itself known. Neighbors have been approaching me, all quiet and sort of pleading, wondering just when I'm going to hit another factory. They need that extra cash to get coal and firewood, to heat their homes. Well I'm putty in the hands of the slums smallest children and the adults know that. So after today's dog pile of cold hands and dirty feet I told them I'd be going out tonight.

I don't need much money for me this time, I've been saving every cent. I have enough for next time's morphling purchase and I have a couple vials in stockpile for my parents, I'm safe. I'm comfortable too, I haven't felt so balanced in a while.

I adjust the scarf that is bound tightly around the lower half of my face and make sure my black touque is pulled down safe over my ears. The gun belt is secure around my chest and I pulled a black hoodie over it. It's baggy enough that it isn't that suspicious except for the fact that I am wearing all black and I look like an asshole. A cool asshole, but an asshole nonetheless. Whatever. It's my aesthetic, y'know?

Usually I like to take a couple of moments for myself on the bridge that connects the slums to the factory district. It's not like I'm thinking about how I could die and all, being gloomy like that doesn't interest me. It's just a good spot to see the stars from without all of the light pollution. I can see the twinkling candlelight from the slums from the bridge too, and all the garbage can bonfires that come along with it. The slums are an overpopulated crowded thing but they are incredible for a good old weenie roast.

If I'm hungry all I have to do is step out my front door and see who's at what fire. We're a community sort of place I guess. When it comes to the stuff that goes on behind closed doors, we keep to ourselves. Which suits me fine.

Tonight, as I crest the top of the bridge, I find that someone else has taken my spot. I pause, wondering if I should just go on or not. Sometimes you can see people up on this bridge from the slums, just falling right off. Their bodies wash up on the banks of the slums and we have a whole field full of unmarked graves. We don't ask questions, we just check their pockets for anything valuable and then let them rest in peace. When I was younger I used to try to race to the bridge in time to stop the jumper but I could never make it and it just got disappointing. Tonight I'm already here. I have a chance.

So I guess my decision is made for me.

(Quite possibly it's the broadness of his shoulders that makes me stick around but I know I'm shameless. Not that shameless though.)

"Oi oi oi," I say as I flop against the railing, and then because I am smooth as hell I say, "Nice night, y'know?"

His response is not so pleasant. In fact, I'd say it's downright aggressive. That's interesting. Curiosity overtakes me as I look up at his face to study his features. As I'd suspect, it looks like he's been crying. He still looks angry as all hell and I wonder what the reasoning behind that is. I'd expect desperation, not the whole anger bit. Anger says 'oi i'm still alive y'know? Just upset!' It doesn't say 'yo, i'm just gonna go and jump off a bridge, ttyl' nearly as concise and nice as a hint of desperation sounds.

Colour me intrigued.

"Oh y'know," I say with an upward flop of my shoulders, "Just goin' for a stroll or two I guess. What's the weather like up there?" I ask, keeping my tone light and defenseless sounding. I don't want to fight this kid, he looks like he could beat the shit out of me with one look anyway. "Don't bother, I'll find out myself," I say cheerfully as I pull myself up onto the railing with very little effort. Maybe some would call me insane for climbing up beside such a dangerous looking kid but I never could resist a challenge, and this kid's nearly got a big old bow and a label on him that says 'To Nemo'.

I live only because fate allows me too, so I find it best not to ignore her when she sends me a gift. I make myself comfortable, gripping the railing even as I cheerfully kick my legs over the white rapids churning dangerously below us.

[[nyte]]

t a t e  s e r a p h i m

The kid climbs up next to me and I can't stop my head from tilting to the side; much like it had when I was a child who'd been reprimanded for something I didn't understand. My brows knit closely together and I look at the boy in black for longer than I should. I want to laugh, or perhaps to hit him. What kind of idiot was this? I'd not been friendly, I'd sure as hell not invited him up here, but here we are sitting next to each other like old friends enjoying the night's mystery. I'm not relieved, definitely not grateful, but I'm not really angry either. I drop my head once more, counting the seams in my dirty pants, taking staggered breaths of frosty air as I desperately attempt to gather my wits.  

It isn't often that I'm taken off guard, that someone finds a chink in my armor. And it's certainly not often an annoying kid dressed in black with problems taking a hint. Nonetheless, I scoot over, making more room for the boy without a single word. It was something to intentionally fall of a bridge, but it'd be embarrassing to the both of us if one took an accidental tumble. Until today, I thought I'd seen it all and maybe that made me ignorant. I wanted to think that there was nothing so despicable I hadn't experienced it, that the bad in the world was no longer a surprise. But this, this wasn't bad or good, not the black and white I'd sorted everything into as of late. I'd forgotten that such thing as grey even existed. And it annoys the fuck out of me. 

My fingers have melded to the iron, even removing them from their place around the chain is painful. One hand now rests against my pocket, taking comfort in the familiar weight resting there. I hadn't lost it in these long hours, at least something was still the same. I wasn't going to kill anything tonight, I decided, at least not the kid. The taunting innocence in his voice intrigued me as much as it angered me. Given I could have slipped off the railing right here and now, left the idiot where he sat to whatever business he had in the middle of the night. It was as much my business as mine was his. I didn't want to, however. I'll play the game for now, one I haven't played for a long while. It's crushing to think how long it's been since I've even seen someone who was not connected to the gang, let alone spoken to them. I have a lot of friends back home, but they mean nothing to me. They kiss my ass so that their ashes aren't the ones I'll be cleaning off of the floor come morning light. The word friends has lost its meaning. 

"If you're going to fucking lie, at least do it well," my voice is hoarse from constant sobbing, deeper and rougher than normal. "No one in their right mind goes for a walk on this bridge in the middle of the night just for the sake of it." It's true enough. This might not be the slums, but it ain't the rich part of town either. People die here and it's no secret. Hanging around is fucking stupid because one of my men will mug you or another gang will do the same. There's no mercy in this district, you don't walk without a purpose. You don't stop, you don't pass go and collect two hundred dollars, you get to where you belong or you die. 

I don't peg this asshole for a crazy, despite how tempting he makes it. There's a kind of intelligence behind his words, like he knew exactly what he wanted to say and exactly what he was doing. I've had a lot of crazies under my command, and been on the receiving end of their abuse a few times too. The kid is different because he was purposely being an annoying little shit. 

He kicks his feet like a child being pushed on the swing. His face consists of two white orbs with dark brown hues gently applied to the middle. Maybe he'd be pretty if I could see the rest of his face, but it's hidden behind thick cloth. It's difficult to peg his age exactly, they say the eyes are the window to the soul but I can tell jack shit about this asshole other than he has pretty eyes. I can't make out the shape of his face, or his nose, I can't tell if he has a pointed jaw or high cheek bones. There's no way to tell what color his lips or his hair are and it frustrates the fuck out of me. It doesn't seem fair, as I have nothing to guard my identity. I can't hide the fact that I've been crying and I don't think I look anything short of a pathetic bitch right now. 

My lip curls and I turn back to the moon, awaiting an answer. 

[gamemaker kelsier]

N  E  M  O

He doesn't look very pleased to see me but no one ever really is so that doesn't put me off at all. Old Nel often says that I'm unshakable but I'm pretty sure that she means it in a good way. Dad says that I'm a stubborn bastard that's clinging on to life and I take that as a compliment as well. You take what you can get I suppose and often there isn't much to choose from. It's occured to me before that it might be nice to ahve a friend around to make me feel better about things sometimes, but I don't really have time for friendships. When I'm not robbing factories I'm building bombs or fetching Old Nel her groceries, or fishing with drunk Gary on the riverbank for my dinner. When I'm not doing those things I'm running around the slums with the kids while their parents are in the factories or I'm cleaning the house. Or taking care of mom and dad. They take a lot of my time up too.

I'm a busy guy, really.

But I am good at people. I can make time for them, strangers, acquaintances, mortal enemies, I'll always make time for them. I like people. The way that they work is interesting and it's good to feel things like happiness and even sadness. It's good to share it with someone. I let the silence blanket us for a few moments as I wait for him to catch up with me. It often takes people a few moments at first, like I'm a train speeding along a mile a minute and they're holding out their hands to catch onto a railing. Sometimes they make it aboard, sometimes not.

I let my gaze wander over his features when I'm finally feeling comfortable enough to take my eyes off of the river raging below. First thing I notice is that his nose is really long. Sort of like a carrot nose but not sticking out like a carrot. It's glued flat to his face. I built a snowman once and Sean even had coal and a carrot for it's nose. It was in our front yard for maybe twenty minutes before old Gary came wandering along and got excited about the vegetable being there in the middle of winter. He ate the nose and we had to put a spoon there instead. The effect just wasn't the same.

His nose suits him though. Like it reminds me of a carrot in the best way possible. He's got a pretty face is what I mean I guess. He's one of those people that other people call pretty but not to his face because they don't want to get punched. (But please, that jawline is to die for, free of scars and gorgeous really.)

Fuck, I'm so gay.

I've got to snap out of that, this kid is obviously on the verge of jumping off a bridge, he's not looking for a date. That's me. I'm the one looking for a date but not at two in the morning dressed like this either. I already have a date. A date with destiny, yep, I'm all booked up so too bad for this guy really.

I stop looking at his face because obviously that's a dangerous idea.

My gay-ze is drawn down to his hands. I noticed them earlier. The knuckles are all white because he's gripping the railing so tightly, like a dying man holding onto his last chance at salvation. That can't be good for his hands at all. It's not like the metal of this bridge is extremely well kept. No one cares about the safety of the people in the slums because we're 'dirt poor and a bloody nuisance anyway'. If the bridge broke tonight everyone would just shrug their shoulders and get onto it. No one would miss the bodies of two teenaged boys. Well. No one would miss me at least, I can't say the same for him.

He answers me and I flick my eyes up to meet his stare again. He sounds mad as heck but also like someone has taken a cheese grater to his throat. He has been crying then. That or chain smoking but I don't smell anything remotely related to a cigarette.

My grin widens beneath my scarf and my eyes crinkle up in response to his angry words. I really like him. I can't put my finger on just why but once I've decided something it's pretty much impossible to change my mind. "Well lucky for me that I happen to be in my left mind at the moment," I say to him, one hand letting go of the railing so that I can tap the left side of my head in a knowing manner.

I'm not only gay, I'm also a little shit. I have many talents, some of them still undiscovered.

"And so which mind are you in then, kid?" I ask politely.

[[nyte]]

t a t e  s e r a p h i m

I'm furious, but somehow it takes all I can to repress a smile. It tries to force its way onto my lips, tries to sneak onto the corners of my mouth when I'm not paying attention. I lock my jaw instead, the boy having caught my full attention. I didn't care if I was staring or what this kid thought of me. I don't pay attention to the fact that it's the first genuine smile I've felt in months either and I don't even know why I even feel like smiling because this kid has only pissed me off. Underneath that damned scarf I can almost see the self-satisfied grin as he revels in his own lame pun. I already despise that scarf. 

His question means a lot more than he intended, however. I search the sky for an answer but all it gives me is sullen silence. What mind am I in? One that'd push me off a bridge? One that was desperate enough to see my brother I'd willingly throw myself into the Detention Center? "To be honest, I think I'm out of it." my voice is softer, it's a tone I've only ever used when talking to my brothers. It wasn't the icy whisper I used to intimidate, nor the angry growls which had torn through my throat only minutes ago. It was genuine. I wasn't often genuine. 

So I'm most definitely out of my mind, I decide. I should have punched this kid as soon as he sat on the railing, I should have just left right then and there because he was insufferable already and we'd barely said two words to each other. But I don't. I sit and a move my numb fingers trying not to focus on how much it hurt or how terribly my palms were cut. "But I don't have to worry about the night's dangers- why don't you?" my hand hovers awkwardly for a second and I'm honestly not sure why it's even raised to begin with. 

Never in my life have I felt this flustered. 

Most people were easy to understand. They did what they had to to survive because that's what humans do. At least a thousand people want to see me and my family dead, at least a thousand people probably sat on this very bridge crying the very same tears. I knew how these things worked because I've seen it all. Everyone is selfless until it comes to sacrificing yourself. No one wants to give their life for someone else. We're all selfish bastards underneath. I knew that. I could understand people because of that. 

I can't understand him. He could have walked past. He could have left when I told him to fuck off in far too many words. He should have been afraid that I yelled. He should have done a lot of things I was used to. Instead he sat next to me and cracked one of the worst jokes I've ever heard. One that made me so angry I wanted to smile and to laugh. It fucking frustrated the hell out of me and so I forced my hand to my hair instead, careful to keep the blood away from the stray locks as I brushed it down absent-mindedly.

What the fuck am I doing? Biting the side of my cheek hard, I place my palm upon my knee, still looking at the kid with an expression of disgust because it was quite actually the worst joke I've ever heard. I'd have buried my face in my hands if that wouldn't have hurt so much. And if that wouldn't have sent me falling back on my ass. 

He seems rather free, eyes wrinkling as he no doubt sports a shit-eating grin. I'm tempted to pull down the scarf and force him to say it to my face. But we'd just met and that'd be rude. 

My standards are a bit lopsided sometimes. 

I wonder where he lives, what his life is like. I'll likely never see him again and I'm not going to fucking ask, but I like to imagine. Maybe he's a happy kid from the richer part of town, one with a dad and a mom and a younger sister that looks up to him. Maybe he had a family back home that was still in tact and that loved him as much as I loved my brothers. Maybe he's a good kid with a good life and a good family-

that wanders around the district in the dead of night. 

Sometimes I forget there's really no such thing as a happy ending. No one here has a good life, no one here is going to amount to anything but a factory worker or a criminal and that's that. No matter how free this kid looked, there had to be some dark secrets underneath those black clothes. Not that I cared in the slightest. 

Sometimes I just like to imagine.

[gamemaker kelsier]

N  E  M  O

He's really adorable like this, looking so flustered and angry, it isn't really fair at all. I try not to let my thirst control me in most instances but I'm a teenage boy and that's what teenage boys are for according to most science texts. I used to run from my gay thoughts, I even had a girlfriend for a few weeks but boys man. They're so cute with their happy trails and sharp jawlines y'know? It isn't even fair. This guy is adorable, even with his tear-stained cheeks and his scowl. He looks like a kicked puppy, and I sort of feel like I'm responsible for that last one. I'm ruining this serious moment with really bad puns.

I'm laughing still underneath my scarf, trying to hold it in because he looks so annoyed. He's flapping his arms about like an angry bird, hands travelling everywhere, all at once. He brushes back his hair and I take note. I pay attention to the things that people do when they are nervous. Nerves lead to unpredictability and me being shot at with guns and I really don't know if I like either of those things. Spontaneity is no big deal, I'm the king of spontaneity, but I can't say I care for it much in other people. When Dad gets spontaneous it's never a good time.

It's hard not to notice his hands when he's flapping them about like that. They're also nice to look at like everything about this kid. I can't help wondering just wear he's from. His clothes are too nice for him to come from the slums and his way of speaking is too good to. I wouldn't call him a Poshie either though. Poshies don't come here, not even the rebellious teenaged pricks. We're too beneath them. So he must come from somewhere in the middle. That's interesting. I wonder if they have pasta where he's from. I've always wanted t try pasta but it's too expensive to splurge on when rice is a lot cheaper. I make a mental note to ask him.

The hands, right. The hands are still flapping and they look painful. The undersides are all raw, I look down at the railing between us, half expecting to see his entire palm on there but all there is, is rust and dust. Blood too. A lot of dark burgundy staining the railing a sharp red. I'm not sure if he is aware of his hands. He says something softly and I have to lean slightly forward to hear it over the rushing of the water.

I appreciate his honesty. "I agree," I say with a chirp and a bob of my head. Nobody still in any part of his mind sits on a bridge railing like this one, not when they've literally nicknamed this very bridge 'Charon's Crossing'. I don't think I have to remind him of the danger though, he seems to be very well aware.

I wonder what brought him here.

I wonder about those things a lot when we get a body washed up on our shores. Sometimes they're like mine, well used and abused. I'm never certain if that's from the cruelty of the river or it's because their loved ones hate them as well. I never get the chance to ask, dead men really can't tell very many good stories, that myth is true. There are clues though, always clues.

He looks like a no-good punk ass kid, for one. I find that incredibly attractive. My own ears are pierced in an attempt to keep up with the fashion and because Sean's ears had been pierced too. Currently, they're sporting silver spikes that are cunningly designed to look like they've been shoved forcibly through my ear. In fact, they screw together. (Like me).

His question is intriguing, only because with the asking he's given away the fact that he automatically assumes he's tougher than me. This is probably entirely true. I'm lean and I've got muscle but the relative clarity of my knuckles says that I don't go around punching people that often. Still, I'm pretty badass in some ways if I do say so myself. For example, I'm sitting here with a bunch of bombs strapped to my chest, calmly conversing. They're pull tabs though. There's no chance of them going off with a bit of bumping about.

Still, I take pleasure in the small stuff. "Dude," I say, voice serious as I turn to face him completely, "I am the danger." Then I give him the old finger guns, shaping my left and right hand into pistols and raising them up and down in his general direction. I've let go of the railing, but my sense of balance is goddamned gorgeous.

[[nyte]]

t a t e  s e r a p h i m

He's making fun of me. Maybe I was a bit proud to announce that I had nothing to fear in such a fashion but that in no way gave him the right to make fun of me. My look of disgust becomes almost a pout as I regard to goofy boy through narrowed eyes. "Sure." I grumble, "It's easy to laugh behind that thing." I gestured toward the scarf that I already despised. I was far to curious for my own good, really. He had such pretty eyes but I wondered what he looked like beneath the cover. 

I knew far too much about masks. They were easy to create, simple walls built out of straw that threaten to blow over in the slightest breeze. Over time they get stronger. My mask was once made of twigs and then brick and now it's made of something much stronger. Something that I've managed to hide behind from all of my demons, from myself. So that I can truly be a monster when I have to even if it has never been who I really am. But I honestly have no idea who I am anymore. and that's why I'm here. That's why I'm wiping bloody hands on my pants and trying not to wince because it hurts a lot. I think that's why I want to protect Teddy so much, maybe I see myself in the kid and it scares me shitless.

The last thing the world needs is another Tate running around, this one was enough of a fuck up. 

I'm not a vain person. I appreciate beautiful things, yeah. I don't fuck for the sentimental value and I've found both men and women beautiful. I didn't get attached to them, I've never even been on a proper date before. Love is a dangerous thing, when you're like me. There are too many bastards out there who want an eye for an eye. I've taken so many loved ones away but I couldn't stand for my own to be treated the same. And so I don't care unless I have to. 

I love my brothers. I love Calcifer. But I know it'd be better if I was alone. If there was no emotional baggage nailing my toes to the ground because I could never be hurt and no one would get hurt because of me. 

And for some reason that really, really hurts to admit. Who wants to grow up loved knowing that it'd be better for them to have never met you at all? 

I decide that this kid could look like a god underneath the scarf and I still wouldn't care. He'd be an annoying asshole that I'd never meet again. But whatever smartass comment he's going to make next, he's going to say it without the mask because I didn't have mine and it was only fair. 

A crooked grin has broken onto my lips, heart racing as my hand finally finds meaning in moving towards the boy's face. I haven't said a word, not planning on explaining what I was going to do and give him time to get out of it. This asshole teased me and therefore I would show no mercy. The cloth is soft upon the pads of my fingers, I rub the black cloth between them before pulling down hard upon it. "How about you say all that to my face asshole-," I begin, far too satisfied with my own bravery to think before I sound like a raging douche bag.

The first thing I notice is how well his eyes match his cheeks. His face is shaped like a diamond, jaw sloping to meet his chin at a perfect angle. Everything about him is bright and soft. My eyes are glued to his for too long before the venture to the other side of his face. 

And tears make their way to the corners of my eyes. Fast and warm, they push through my walls because an innocence was ruined. Every mark tells a story, every burn that has permanently turned parts of my hands a ghostly while reminds me of what I've don to others. The gash along my collar bone reminds me of the first time I'd ever tortured an innocent man, one who became a monster by the time I was done with him. They say he was a gentle giant before, that he'd never have hurt a fly. But his son had failed to pay his due and well-

I'll never forget the savage look in his eyes as he tried to draw that blade across my throat. 

This is a mark of pain. One of remorseless cruelty, of torture. It's a mark I'd have given one of my victims before dousing them in gasoline and leaving them to scream and cry until they were nothing but ash upon the floor. 

And I'm going to be sick because I don't care how dangerous this kid is. No one deserves this. 

[gamemaker kelsier]

N  E  M  O

It's not like I wear the scarf to hide the scar. I used to be afraid of what people would think when they saw it because it really isn't the most beautiful thing. My grin is permanently crooked because of it, I'm missing a whole bit of cheek in there. Nel says that I have more than enough cheek to make up for it but I guess sometimes I'm a tiny bit self conscience. It's difficult sometimes to feel like I'm not just a walking scar when people stare. The people in the slums are used to disfigurements but my god were they ever shocked at first. Especially when it was all raw and ugly and red. The black thread that held it all together didn't look all that great either. Nel did what she could for my face, but not anyone would be able to put it back together the way that she did.

I guess what I'm saying is that I don't really mind it, not anymore. Now I think that it helps me come across as fierce. The problem with it however is that it really makes me far too recognizable. I don't want to be that when I'm going on a job. When I'm at home or around the slums I leave the scarf off. Poshie town can't stomach scars like mine either, so I wear it when I go there too. It's easier just to wear it most times really. When I'm meeting a cute boy for the first time, I feel a hell of a lot more attractive when I've got my big black scarf wrapped tight around my throat.

It's not that I don't think I'm hot. I mean, I'm good looking I think, I've got good eyes and nice hair. My body is pretty sweet to look at too, I'm proud of it. The scar is what throws me off my game. The scar is a mark of everything that I have to fear, and a mark of my survival of it. However, I can't bring myself to be completely okay with it.

It's because the way people's eyes get when they see it for the very first time. Disappointment, pity, horror. Disgust.

A smart talking kid like me's got to watch out for a lot in this world. There's always someone that I've made look stupid at some point out for revenge. I've never had anyone reach out to steal my comfort so easily though. I've never let anyone get close enough to do that.

I have to make the choice of either reaching up to hold the scarf in place or latching my hands back onto the railing to avoid falling into the river and I'll choose life over death every single time. So it's with a reluctant feeling that I let him unravel the safety from around my neck with one sharp tug. I don't try and look away either to keep his eyes from seeing it because there's no point in hiding it when it's so very much there.

In fact, I keep my eyes locked on his. I have a morbid curiosity I guess. I want to see that flash of complete disgust in his eyes too. Every now and then I need a good reminder of reasons I should hate my father. They never work though. I can't help loving my Dad, even after what he's done.

The boy's words cut off in the middle of his sentence but he isn't even looking at the scar, he's looking at my eyes and I'm waiting for his to follow the jagged pink line that begins at the corner of my left. I wait for his gaze to follow the trail down to my ear and then down along my jawbone to my lips. I had to learn how to speak properly again after my Dad did that to me. Every now and then my words still link together when I'm tired, giving me a slur. Sometimes I feel like a bit of an ugly duckling but all my bits still work so it's alright.

What I mean is, I'm still great in the sack so it's no real big loss.

I watch him calmly, one hand taking the scarf from his now limp hands so that I can fold it up and tuck it into the pocket of my hoodie. He doesn't say anything and that's kind of worrying. Usually people at least gasp in horror and faint a little or offer an apology for my condition. I don't deal with the silent type all that often. I want to break the silence when he starts crying.

Right, that's a bit awkward.

I look away, gripping the railing tight again. I've never found emotion uncomfortable, in fact I am a firm believer of feeling what you need to in the moment. It'd be too difficult otherwise if I had to bottle up every little thing that I was feeling. For me however, getting rid of my emotions is easy. No matter which one it is, I can solve it by blowing something up. Like an emotional firework, I can get it all out with a bit of building and a bit of exploding. I can't remember the last time I really cried though. Maybe last week there were a few frustrated tears or maybe it was a month ago, I don't know.

I just wish he'd stop. It's not like I need anyone crying over me. "Shit dude," I say, forced cheer layering my voice, "It's not like I'm that ugly."

[[nyte]]

t a t e  s e r a p h i m

He doesn't look away. his eyes stay locked upon mine until the first tears fall. I can't often help myself but I'm not ashamed that I cry. I'm not too good at words, see? It's hard for me to understand what I'm feeling, let alone convey it to another. I think I've only told my brothers I loved them aloud a handful of times in seventeen years. That doesn't mean I don't but it's a hell of a lot easier for me to say "You're a fucking idiot." than "I love you." It means the same thing anyway. I barely know this boy but I'm tempted to pull him into a hug and apologize right then and there. Scars mean fuck all to my family, no matter where they are. (Teva is constantly bragging about his ass scar anyway.) 

When he speaks it makes me angry. Is that what people told him? Was a reaction of disgust commonplace? He was still really, really pretty. It wasn't the scar itself that made me cry, it was the meaning behind it. The suffering it entailed, what he must have gone through while it was healing. Scars itch and burn while they heal, they can get infected and around here that's really dangerous. When you treat them it's no better, and a wound like that needed stitches. I couldn't imagine a needle forcing its way through the sensitive skin around my cheek. We don't have good medicine in nine and I doubt we have a professional to deal with trauma either. 

"You can shut the fuck up." I snap, grabbing at the pretty boy's jacket to make him look at me. "That shit doesn't make you ugly to begin with." I bite my bottom lip, wiping my eyes on the back of my hand. "I'm just- I'm angry you had to go through something like that, it's bullshit." I don't care, I promise I don't. It only affected me because I've seen it- hell I've done it, I've heard the cries of pain and the begging and I've seen the blood. There's always so much blood. 

I'm tired of the railing, I decide. It's only that and not the burning of my cheeks that makes me move away, throwing one leg onto the bridge and then another. My hip rests against it now, head falling upon the support and arms crossed. I should've dressed warmer, I decide. The plain t-shirt provides little to no warmth against the misty wind and I'm definitely feeling it now. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight on end and goosebumps line my skin. I'm lucky my face is burning, for some reason, or else I'd probably be an ice cube by now. 

I exhale dramatically, puffing out my cheeks as I do so. My eyes fly about the bridge, desperately searching for some way to assure him that I didn't really think he was ugly because I wasn't that much of a shallow asshole. I don't care what he thinks of me but I don't want him walking away with the wrong idea. "I uh... I don't really think you're ugly at all. I like your eyes." It's only after I've said it that I realize how utterly pathetic that sounded and I shut my eyes tight, pressing the back of my hand against them and silently smacking my head against the wall.

I most definitely do not have a way with words. The kid might be more offended at my compliments than an insult or else he'll get the wrong idea because I was in no situation to be trying to flirt with him or anything. Hell, I don't even know what the fuck I'm doing right now apart from looking like a complete fool. 

Fuck's sake I murder people, my brother has just been arrested, this kid has just found me about to throw myself off a bridge and I'm more embarrassed by the fact that I've just accidentally hit on him than anything else. If any of the guys saw me right now I'd never be taken seriously again. And quite honestly, after this I don't know if I should be. 

"I mean not only your eyes - I mean you don't look all that bad- I mean-" I can't stop talking, I can't shut the fuck up when I really need to. I'm not normally like this I'm really not. I don't care what he thinks of me but I still don't want him to think I'm some shallow asshole who thinks he's ugly because of a stupid ass scar that wasn't his fault. But I don't care what he thinks. I don't even know his name. 

I want to ask him where he got it, and if the asshole who did it is six feet under like he should be. Scars are a sign of battle, of a struggle that you won despite probably getting the shit kicked out of you. Back where I grew up, no one let you off with a warning. When you showed up with a new wound the other guy was worse off because you're still standing. Every scar is another battle wound, as good as proof you've killed someone because no one just cuts you and lets you go. Especially not a wound like this. He's not one of ours and he doesn't look like the others. I'm not too sure what to make of him, right now and it annoys me. 

But he's seen it, I think. What we've seen. The destruction of life and the innocence ruined by it. I don't see it in his eyes, they're too bright and too human but I see it in the way he hold himself. My eyes have traveled the length of his body a few times over now and I'm sure he's not one of the rich kids. I'm sure he's like nothing I've ever seen before. 

There are so many unanswered question that I will never voice.

Because I don't care. 

I promise.

[gamemaker kelsier]

N  E  M  O

Holy shit this boy is cute as hell. I don't know where he came from but I'm not really bothered by that. History is not relevant, never has been and it never will, at least not where I come from. One of Nel's favourite thing to say is that the past is in the past for a reason and therefore, we should probably avoid it at all costs. It certainly makes life easier when you stay out of it. It's happened already so we have no business being there, life is meant for the present and I am a firm believer in that idea.

I've made him flustered again, which is good because maybe that means the tears have finally stopped. (Or not). I don't know where I am with tears really, they often come along just when you're least expecting it. It's sort of like a sneak attack and although I'm very much into those kind of attacks, I don't like it when they're sprung on me. I don't like people crying over me either. It's weird and unnatural and makes me feel bad. It's silly that it makes me feel bad but I never set out to make anyone feel sorry for me and I've got my pride, right?

Well I sort of have my pride. I'm pretty sure at this point I own half of it. I'm still trying to pay my parents back for it because they gave me the down payment, with an interest of one hundred percent. So it's gonna take me a couple of years I guess but I'll get it back in the end, I'm sure.

I'm not quite sure where I left it though. It's either somewhere in my left arm or stuck to my ass because I sat on it weird, I don't know. Wherever it is, it's not here because I'm not entirely proud of the thoughts I'm having right now. You know how they say that teenage boys think about sex every three seconds or so? Well for me I'm pretty sure it's every single second of my life. It's not that I don't get some every now and then because I do, I get a lot okay. I get tons alright. I think that I think about it so much because each time it's not right.

I always used to think it was just sex I was after. Soon I came to understand that that idea wasn't right. I'm after more than just 'that' but I don't understand quite what that 'that' is that I'm after. That's where it gets confusing because really, what is 'that'? I don't know. I just don't know at all but I do know that this kid is really something else and he just might have the 'that' that I'm after.

But god, I'm such an idiot. I'm too friendly, too ready to jump to conclusions. Sometimes I hate myself for being like this. I'm far too trusting and it's a problem. I shake my head vigorously, getting all the romanticky cobwebs out. They're crowding up the place. I know what I'm good for and that's for anything but what I want, so therefore I am not going to allow it, not this time. Nemo Klardie is not going to fall for the 'that' trap, not ever. (I've got to be firm with myself because no one else will be.)

When it comes to sweet boys that are hot but also sad, my resolve crumbles the tiniest bit. I'm pretty sure that they're my main weakness. I don't know why this is. I suppose everything makes sense but the sadness. Maybe I just don't want to be with someone happier than me.

Holy shit I have issues. This isn't even supposed to be my thoughtful-bridge-reflection-time, it's meant to be his.

I'm thrown out of my stupid thought train when he grabs me by the front of my sweater and pulls. I blink at him in surprise as he yells at me about things that I can't control. It occurs to me that this guy is maybe used to being the one in control of a situation. Maybe he's lost control, maybe that's why he's so sad and angry and hurt and bridge-jumpey in general. I wish I could say I understood but to be honest maybe I don't. What type of guy thinks about jumping off of a bridge and then does his utmost to make sure that a guy like me doesn't feel self-conscience.

He lets go of me and climbs off the railing to lean against it.

b-i-n-g-o and bingo was his name-o.

He's off the railing and therefore out of the danger zone. Usually when folk climb off for the first time they don't have the guts to get back up and contemplate that death waiting so far below no matter how 'tough' they are. I grin wide from ear to ear as he covers his face with his hand. It isn't just for that either. His compliments are really too kind and far too good for a face like this. I appreciate him trying though.

He's a goody, Nel would say. When I was little I thought that she meant a person was literally made out of candy and I bit my friend Eric hard on the arm in an attempt to taste him. He literally tasted like sweaty flesh and dirt. I never tried that again. Until now. I'd like to try it now. I mean, I don't want to bite this kid or anything but y'know. A taste or two would be nice.

I slip off of the railing. My job here is done. He won't be jumping because I know what a jumper looks like and he doesn't look like one.

He's still standing against the railing with his hands covering his face. From where his skin is uncovered I can see that he's blushing hard out. What a lovely little duck he is. Gently, I pull his hands away, removing the mask he's fashioned for himself out of flesh. I turn the tables with a soft swivel and here we are, me staring at him instead. Tears have left tracks down his cheeks and I smile at him.

"You have a cute butt" I say. Gary always says that it's good to return compliments with compliments and so I am doing well in this conversation. Slowly I lean forwards, lips nearly brushing his ear as I whisper, "So don't jump off any bridges."

Carefully, I lean backwards and place his hands back over his face before I take off in a run to the factory district.

I've still got a job to do after all.