all the possibilities {arsen/theo}

[[nyte]]

t h e o d o r e  h a r t

It's empty without Nikolas. Mom let me move back into our old room and I sleep with his pillows because they smell just like him. Nearly two years have passed since I needed someone to sing me to sleep but I can't help and imagine what it would be like if my brother was still here. If we could sit up talking about everything and avoiding the elephant in the room because nobody ever wanted to talk about that elephant. We could act like everything was normal and I could smile. I wouldn't tell him he's an asshole, wouldn't tell him it was all his fault. I wouldn't tell him I hate him. (Oh, there are so many things I would have done differently.) 

This morning is quiet. I lift up the floorboards as I always do, clutching the needle I'd prepared the night before. My veins are on fire, the whole of my body craving the sinful liquid that bubbles when I tap on it with my finger. I need it. I don't want it, want is something I haven't done for a while. There is no room for wanting when the whole of my life is consumed by getting the next fix. (Luckily Jordan has given me enough to finish out this week, barely.) There's elastic between my teeth as I pull the band taught over my skin. Bruises and pock marks line my forearm and it's so ugly that I grimace when I see it. The vein I've been using has scarred over too thick and no matter how much I move the needle underneath my flesh I can't hit the vein. 

So I choose one upon my wrist, hitting the plunger with a moan akin to a starving man's first bite. I throw my head back, smile lighting my lips as the happiness wracks my body. It doesn't last long. (It hasn't lasted long enough for a year now.) I don't feel happy, I feel normal. I feel nothing. I need the drug to feel nothing. It is my savior from the way it has scarred my own body. It's pathetic. 

I've put the supplies away, knowing that by nightfall I'll need another hit. Until then, I plan on spending as much of my allotted freedom out of this damned house. So I pull a sweater over my head (nobody wants to see arms marred by sin) and pants over my legs. There's no absolute destination in mind, just to get as far away as possible with shackles still attached to my ankle. 

Today's wanderings have lead me to a parlor. One where needles are used for art instead of destruction. The thought brings a smile to my lips and I walk inside because I want to know what it's like to make beauty with the thing ruining my life. And maybe because I was lonely and didn't want to spend my day with Jordan. I never want to spend my day with Jordan. 

There's a boy there, and there's something sad about him. If a raincloud followed anyone around, it would have been him. The way he holds himself and look upon his face. Right then, I decide he's going to be my friend because I think the both of us could use one. 

Cocky grin pasted upon my lips, I saunter over to him, resting an elbow on the counter as I ponder what would be my first words to this new friend. "You know, it takes more muscles to frown than to smile." (Perfect.)

[Python]

[presto]

ARSEN RAUV



eighteen



district two

[/presto]

[presto]

The parlor was quiet. Better yet, it was dead. Matteo swept the floors twice out of boredom, and Arsen had been ordered to wipe down chairs, tables, and equipment despite those tasks having been completed the night before. Late mornings after the parlor first opened were almost always void of life like a graveyard, except there was no grass for him to sit on and no headstone to prop his flowers against. Everyone here was alive, more or less, living their sunshine lives and reminding Arsen not to slouch because it was bad for his spine. Scowling, he stood up straight and wiped the last bit of dust off the counter. Matteo was talking more than usual. Their third worker was in the back, avoiding everything like he always did until a customer walked in. Unfortunately for him, Arsen planned on snagging the first one. He wanted to work.

There was usually a one to two hour delay between opening and their first customer. Today was no different. A young girl about sixteen waltzed in with her group of friends, making a ruckus about how big she wanted her purple heart tattoo to be. They approached the counter with cheerful smiles and childish giggles. Arsen returned their greetings with a stoic mask. ”How may I help you?” He sounded as enthusiastic as a robot, but he was genuinely looking forward to putting that needle in his hand and inking something pretty, even if it was a design as mundane as a purple heart on the back of a girl’s neck.

To his relief, the girl didn’t squirm or flinch. She was perfectly capable of enduring the needle’s sharp touch throughout the entire process. It was discomforting to have her friends peeking over his shoulder and invading his personal space (not that they weren’t cute, but he was done with hookups and the like), but overall the work was pleasant. The girl’s utter delight at her new tattoo seeped through her smiles, and she tipped him before she disappeared with her friends. Matteo patted him on the back for a job well done. Arsen simply shrugged. It was nothing, really.

All he wanted to do was work and draw, work and draw. Home was heartbreakingly silent. He rarely ever caught his father meeting with his employees, so Arsen didn’t have anybody to talk to. Dad sure as hell didn’t want to talk, not unless it was about school. Fuck school.

He heard the bell jingle again and glanced up from his blank paper. He had been sharpening a pencil in preparation for a sketch in order to pass the time. A boy his age walked up to the counter, propped his elbow in front of the paper and cheekily acknowledged Arsen’s inability to smile. Matteo ceased his cleaning and looked up at them from across the store. ”How may I help you?” Arsen asked, unblinking and unimpressed by his customer’s annoying ass greeting. He was in no mood to smile, ever. There was nothing in his life to smile about.

[/presto]

[[nyte]]

t h e o d o r e  h a r t

His blatant ignoring of my clever line only broadens my smile. (It you were a god, Theo, you'd be the god of being fucking annoying. Nikolas had once told me, ruffling the dirty mop upon my head. And I'd told him I knew that before sticking out my tongue and running down the street in nothing but my underwear. It was a dare.) "How can you help me?" I repeat his question tilting my head in the way only I could. A single eyebrow raised as I leaned closer over the counter, so close to the boy what our noses were mere centimeters away. "More like how can I help you, right!?" I burst into a fit of laughter, pulling away and slapping my thigh although nothing was particularly funny about my statement. 

I rest my back against the counter now, taking in my surroundings and taking my sweet time. It was a nice enough place, nothing like the ruffian neighborhoods I'd visited in my time, with parlors that'd give you a tattoo for a line and some conversation. (Although they never include that clause about how you can end up pretty diseased from one of their... masterpieces. Bad for business I assume.) 

I've seen a lot of placed in my time. Jordan likes to drag me along on all of his adventures, all the parties I don't want to attend and all the pain that I want to avoid  shoved right into my face. We'll sit in a circle just like we did when he ruined my life and we'll tie bands around our arms and some idiots will share needles but Jordan always makes sure I have my own. No matter how bad I want to refuse, my will power has crumbled into absolute nothing over the years and so I'll always shoot up at the parties even when I'm dreading doing so. I need it. 

(I need it. The thought never leaves me. Not even now as I sit and glance around the parlor leisurely. It's always in the back of my mind. I need it. I need the rush. I need to feel normal. I need it.) "Nice place you got here!" I comment brightly, trying to avoid the chaos that ensues after too much thinking. "I've always wanted to get a tattoo you know. But alas, I'm scared of needles." It's not as blatant a lie as I'd like. I'm frightened of the next time I'll have to jam a needle into my veins because I'm killing myself more and more each day. I need more and more each day. But I'll do it anyway. 

"So nah, you can't really help me but you looked utterly miserable and I figured, hey misery loves company or whatever so here I am and you seem pretty cool, if not kind of dry, but we can work on that!" 

And the act wears on me. The lovable dumbass act which distracts people from the ugly mess that hides inside. The no good addict that most would spit on, who wouldn't give the time of day. I tug on the sleeves of my sweater absentmindedly, making sure none of the constellations I've carved into my flesh are visible. (After all I've just said I'm scared of needles and I don't want to make a liar of myself yet.) 

[Python]

[presto]

ARSEN RAUV



eighteen



district two

[/presto]

[presto]

A simple “I want a tattoo” would’ve been nice. Instead, he repeated the question and practically smooched Arsen over the counter, spewing one of the worst lines he had ever heard. He sincerely hoped it wasn’t a pick-up line; it was god awful, and to make matters worse the boy was actually cackling at his own comment. Arsen didn’t flinch an inch from the intrusion of personal space – it would take a lot more than a smiling stranger to ward him off. He was a statue set in stone. It was not an easy task to faze him nowadays, even Matteo knew that. He didn’t bother leaving his cleaning station to assist Arsen with this “customer.” He knew better than to interfere. His employee would handle it himself. There was no avoiding it, really. Arsen was a stubborn kid.

He could handle this sunshine boy, whoever he was. His purpose was still a mystery, although his claimed fear of needles made him wonder why he had even bothered to walk inside. Was he only here to pester him? Maybe he was the whole point. Maybe that terrible joke had been a pick-up line after all. Arsen considered this for a moment, eyes scanning him from head to toe as he lounged in one of the chairs. Not bad looking at all. Kind of chipper, but he was willing to try anything once. Matteo stared at the duo questioningly. He probably expected Arsen to do something rude. He was often rude to unpleasant customers, and this one was no exception with his weird comments and annoying rambling.

He sighed through his nostrils and stashed the blank piece of paper away. He didn’t look “utterly miserable,” that had to be an exaggeration. Arsen resembled an ordinary guy, he had just mastered the art of stoic masks and hiding emotions. There was really no need for his emotions in the workplace anyway. Everyone knew he was off-kilter because of what happened the previous year, but its lasting effects were evidently noticeable not just by the staff, but by customers. That was what Matteo had claimed at least. It didn’t make sense to him. Customers were usually satisfied with his work unless they were complete assholes. That would warrant Arsen being an asshole in return. That was the only time his behavior could be labeled “different.” Everyone was just imagining shit.

He was right about the dryness though. Everyone always said he had a dry sense of humor, but that didn’t matter to him much. He didn’t find many things humorous these days. Matteo thought it was sad, and the rest of the employees thought it was disturbing. He was pretty sure they pitied him because of his dead mother and baby sister. And his crippled left leg and right arm. Pity did nothing for him. He didn’t want it from these people, he just wanted to be left alone so he could enjoy his work in peace.

”Are you hitting on me?” he finally asked. There was no point in beating around the bush. He might as well find out if the boy was wasting his time or not.

[/presto]

[[nyte]]

t h e o d o r e  h a r t

Am I hitting on the grumpy (albeit cute) boy standing behind the counter? I laugh again, this one laced with bitterness that he didn't deserve. Alas I cannot stop as the pointed laughs escape my lips, sounding close to sobs if someone listened close enough. I shake my head, throwing it back and running a shaky hand through my hair. I hated thinking of him when he wasn't around. With the grin that makes my stomach churn and the too-sweet cologne that lingers upon my clothes when he drapes himself over me. "You're cute." I comment, deciding to let the kid down easy because it's pretty hard to find a teenage boy who doesn't want to fuck so I don't flirt much  anyway. "Alas, I belong to another." (And he'd kill me for even thinking about it. That's not a dramatization.) 

I wish I could say that my heart belongs to another. That I loved them with every part of my being and we were in a healthy, loving relationship that anyone would be jealous of. But my heart doesn't belong to Jordan, and it's about the only thing that doesn't. We both know it and I think it makes him angry. He gives me every single dose I could want and I'm as good as his pet so why can't I be as infatuated with him as he was me. (Because he's a fucking pig. Because he ruined my life. Because his lips are always chapped and rough and I never kiss back but he doesn't seem to give two shits about that.) 

I quite literally belong to Jordan. It wasn't a cute hyperbole or even a good thing in the slightest. He gives me what I need, whenever I need it, and in turn  I'm his plaything. His pet whom he can do whatever he wants with. He can play with my hair and sneak into my room at night, holding up needles and bands and telling me that if I wanted it I'd have to do just what he told me. I'd have to be a perfect little bitch and if I didn't do it right I'd get his hand across my cheek of a fist to my stomach. And I can't run away because without what he gives me I'll die and i think I like living too much. (I'm living for both Nikolas and me now.) 

"I just... needed a change of scenery you know? Same old gets all too boring and depressing..." My facade crumbles within my hands, thoughts of Jordan and my predicament tearing the smile from my lips. A bit of blood has slipped onto my palm, the shaky needlework this morning leaving my wrist in terrible pain and I clutch my sleeves within my hands and swallow the grimace attempting to sneak onto my features. My throat suddenly feels awfully dry and my bottom lip slides between my teeth and I chew hard on the sensitive skin out of bad habit. The inside of my mouth often tastes something like blood because of my nervous chewing and with each dose my skin gets thinner and I bruise so easy now it's a wonder Jordan's hand print is only a faint yellow against my cheek. He'd only hit me a day ago, after all.

[Python]

[presto]

ARSEN RAUV



eighteen



district two

[/presto]

[presto]

A brief surge of anger rushed through him like a euphoric high, lighting his guts on fire. Why the fuck was he laughing like that, as if the idea of hitting on Arsen was absurd? There wasn’t anything wrong with the way he looked. He knew he was cute. The lack of expression might’ve turned some away, but such a mundane detail would escape his level of caring were he in the opposite positon. The audacity this stranger had heated his cheeks like a furnace, but his face remained carved of solid stone. He chose to stare at a smudge on the counter until the laughter subsided. He didn’t want to reveal any embarrassment, any disappointment, or any discontent. He needed to remain neutral.

”You’re cute,” the stranger said, and the fire extinguished. Damn right he was. Forget every bitter thought I just had. He owed him a mental apology for making assumptions. It wasn’t even about him – he was just taken. Fair enough, but that raised another question: why the hell was he here? He wasn’t hitting on Arsen – whose sex life was drier than his sense of humor – and he was apparently afraid of needles, so that was a no to a tattoo. What was the purpose? To waste space and time? He could be sketching right now. Matteo always encouraged him to socialize, but he was much better at communicating with paper. Though if he did want to be noticed, he would actually have to start going out to places.

Too much effort.

Arsen abandoned his post behind the counter and stood in front of the stranger with his legs apart, trying to make himself look somewhat intimidating. A “change of scenery” was not an excuse to loiter in his parlor. In his peripheral vision he could see Matteo returning to his chores, sweeping at invisible dust particles on the tile floor. He was hogging the broom on purpose. It was Arsen’s favorite method of chasing away insolent customers. They never believed him when he threatened to smack them with the bristled end of it, but the moment they challenged and/or disrespected him he whacked them right in the back. They would always protest at Matteo and demand that he fire him. Matteo tolerated his bullshit, but he would never get rid of him. He was the best worker here.

Matteo was also the only one who understood most of what had happened to him the past few years. He knew why Arsen was crippled, he had been here during one of the hallucinations (and approached him later on with concerns), and he had known Arsen the longest. It wasn’t out of pity that he kept him here. It was out of empathy and genuine concern. Arsen always met his pleas and worries with ice laced in his bitter words, but Matteo didn’t seem angered by it. He knew he should be grateful for it. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. He didn’t know. He just wanted to keep his job.

”You can’t stay here unless you buy a tattoo,” he said. He knew all about boring and depressing scenery – his house, for example – but again, no excuses. He couldn’t let strangers just do what they pleased. What if they started taking advantage of Matteo’s leniency? Not on my watch.

[/presto]

[[nyte]]

t h e o d o r e  h a r t

I press my hands against my cheeks, ignoring the slight throbbing caused by disturbing the stagnant wound. This probably isn't the best way to make friends and if I knew what was good for me I'd have been out of here at least five minutes ago but I'm not known for my great life choices. "I'll get a tattoo eventually." I concede, raising an eyebrow as if challenging him to kick me out anyway. Truthfully, I'm not planning on getting a tattoo any time soon but this is the only conversation I've had with someone I can actually stand (stranger or not) for a good year. I don't expect kindness from people I've never met, and I certainly don't expect it from people who know me. (No good junkie, they'll scoff. I wish I could be offended by the term.) 

"But I gotta check it with the old ball and chain you know? He'd probably bash my head in if I did anything without his permission." I shrug off the comment with a half-hearted laugh, unsure whether it was a cry for help or just my own frustrations leaking through impaired lips. (Poison still runs rampant through my veins, I can feel it in the goose-bumps travelling up my spine.)

I don't want to be kicked out. I don't want to wander aimlessly for hours avoiding the inevitable truth of sticking another needle into my arm before nights end only to wash rinse and repeat. I'm tired, so tired, of keeping up the bright facade. But a smile still lights my lips as I lean against the counter, so wide that the corner of my eyes wrinkle with faux happiness. If I can keep him talking, maybe I'll be able to stay. Just for a little longer. Just maybe I can forget about everything for a little while. (How can I when the itch is already clawing its way to the forefront?) I wipe the bit of blood falling from my bit lip on the back of my sleeve and continue to stare at the boy.

"I'm Theodore! But you can call me Theo, everyone does." I'd hold out my hand but it hurts too much and I'm too scared the sleeves will fall back and he'll realize just what I am. (It's a wonder most people don't like to hang out with addicts.) I'm always on edge in public, always pulling at my sleeves and fixing my hair- I make it my goal to look as little like a druggie as I can. Luckily Jordan has kept me from becoming one of those begging, desperate types because of his ever present 'generosity'. I guess I have to be grateful for at least that. Still dressed impeccably with washed hair and soft sweaters, I look like your run of the mill rich kid. (It's not a rarity in Two anyway.)  I figure if I shine bright enough the demons clinging to my legs will fade into the background. That people won't see the sweat on my brow and think: just another kid high off his ass and looking for the next fix. It doesn't matter if that's what I am, it doesn't matter if looks aren't everything. I'm desperate enough to fool myself that I don't care anymore.

[Python]

[presto]

ARSEN RAUV



eighteen



district two

[/presto]

[presto]

“Eventually” was not a satisfactory answer. The study he was in would supposedly end “eventually,” which translated into three years of side effects, four months of lies, and a lifetime of permanent damage. He became acutely aware of the rubber band wrapped around his left wrist. That was his ticket to reality; pain. Everything was pain nowadays, just like it had been when he was fourteen and screaming into his pillow for the first time. A step backward meant pain. One wrong move of the arm meant pain. Reality checks? Pain. A rubber band was merely a sting, but pain could wear at the sanity after a while. Fortunately, he had adjusted to it. He was a pretty durable guy, so a few stings here and there could simply be a result of habitual snapping instead of reality checking.

He knew this stranger was real, otherwise Matteo would’ve made a comment by now. He had only ever hallucinated in the parlor twice. Once with Emelia, and another with a supposed “customer” who stared at the design-book for hours until Arsen brought his suspicions to Matteo. Embarrassingly enough, Matteo had furrowed his eyebrows together and asked him if he was feeling okay. It was enough of a hint to jolt his memory, and he snapped the rubber band against his wrist until the stranger vanished. Matteo tried to let him off early that evening in case he was feeling sick or distressed. Arsen wouldn’t have that. He hated leaving early, it always made him feel unaccomplished and fragile.

”That’s none of my business,” he drawled, digging into his pack pocket for a miniature bag of peanuts. This “ball and chain” sounded like a father figure, but he didn’t want to ask. If there was literal head bashing involved then that was definitely a concern. Perhaps it was an exaggeration. He hoped it was an exaggeration. He didn’t know how to deal with a battered customer. His long-deceased empathetic edge would try to appeal to the situation. Too bad all he wanted now was to pop a peanut between his jaws.

Theodore was an okay name.

”I’m Arsen, but you can call me Arsen. It’s short for Arsen,” he said dryly, ripping open the bag of peanuts. See, he was making a joke. He was attempting to socialize. He glanced over at Matteo and crunched a peanut between his teeth. He would be proud.

”If you could get a tattoo, what would you want?” he asked, leaning against the counter with peanut crumbs glued to his tongue. Talking about tattoos was better than nothing at all. He would have to kick Theo out if they didn’t discuss something productive. Not that Arsen wanted him here, but a little chit-chat was good for passing time. It was slow today anyway. Absolutely dull. Maybe he could show Theo some of the design books before he kicked him out. ”Come back when you want a tattoo,” he would say, and that would be that.

Theo was weird anyway. Why was he wearing long sleeves? It was a million degrees outside, and he looked sweaty. It was kind of gross. Sweat was sticky and warm and he was tired of it tricking against his hand whenever he inked some guy’s back. There was also time he had to stoop over a man’s groin just to get an owl inked into the inside of his thigh. Talk about nasty.

[/presto]

[[nyte]]

t h e o d o r e  h a r t

That's none of my business. My teeth work their into my cheek, a pressure building behind my eyes rapidly. I force my eyes shut, taking a deep breath and scrambling to get control of myself. But every part of my body screams and writhes beneath a poison so potent I'm barely able to see straight. It's okay, I insist (deep breath in, deep breath out) that's why I can joke about it. That's why I do. If there was a chance anyone would take me seriously I'd never bring it up. That was more of a death wish than heroin. My best friend would take me seriously, of course he would, how many hours have I sat with him on that sidewalk? He's stared at the same spot and I've sat with him, left and come back beat to all hell and I've told him it was an accident. (i wouldn't lie to you! empty promises.) 

It's never anyone's business until my body shows up in a river somewhere. Even then I think only one person would care. 

His introduction grabs my attention, allowing reality to slip from my shoulders and for a grin to crawl upon my lips once more. I laugh, not because his joke was good but because it was so bad. I'm all for self deprecating humor and him making fun of my introduction doesn't bother me in the slightest. I regard him with eyes that dance in amusement, Arsen, the name somehow fits him. I wonder if he's ever burned a house down just to be an arson named Arsen. I'd do it, fuck the man and all that. Though the jail time probably is a downside to that plot, but details are insignificant when faced with that kind of golden pun.

I like him, I decide, tapping the counter with fingers that have become disgustingly gaunt in the last month. I've always been small, mother and father have told me I was the tiniest baby and even now that I've grown taller I've gotten no bigger. Yesterday mother grabbed my wrist and pulled me into an embrace, she told me she was worried and I'd told her everything she wanted to hear until a smile lit her cheeks and she nodded. I like him because he's not trying to be anything but himself. So I laugh because at least he tried. 

He asks me if I could get a tattoo, what would I get and my smile only grows. He gives me the distinct impression that just maybe it's the only thing he's used to talking about. We could change that later, but for now I give him an idle grin. "Maybe something stupid, like me." I give him an exaggerated wink and look around the shop for inspiration. "Or something to do with Nik." but what substance to my brother was there other than holding my head just above the water and telling me it'd all be okay? (more accurately watching Jordan do the same and saying nothing.) Oh, I love my brother but I've never hated anyone more. "No, you know what? Constellations on my forearms." (because I've already created them myself.)

[Python]

[presto]

ARSEN RAUV



eighteen



district two

[/presto]

[presto]

Theo laughed at his joke, and it only confirmed his suspicion. I knew I was funny. Matteo just didn’t understand his dry sense of humor. It was certainly not for everybody, especially his customers, who only offered him blank stares in return for his generous donations of verbal humor. They could be such boring people when he inked their skin. Friends would gossip to one another or reminisce about the last party they attended. Careers would discuss training regimens. Arsen was always silent in his work, but his ears were open and keen. He could focus and ink simultaneously, and he was pretty sure most customers didn’t realize it. That was probably why they never bothered to include him. The nice customers, at least.

The rude ones could fuck off. He would snap at them like an angry turtle until they shut their mouths. Inking their tattoos was the worst. Tension in the air was discomfort, and any discomfort forced into his shop was not welcome. This was supposed to be his sanctuary.

Theo was an intruder to this sanctuary, but Arsen didn’t know what to think of him yet. Obnoxious yes, but with pure intentions. He wasn’t trying to fuck up anybody’s day or get in his way. Loitering was an annoying habit customers often engaged in, but Theo wasn’t technically a customer yet. He probably would be soon, if not today. Arsen could persuade him.

”Maybe something stupid, like me,” he suggested, and it was slightly confusing. Did he mean a tattoo of himself would be stupid, or that he himself was stupid? Because it was stupid. The idea, at least. He hated tattooing actual people onto somebody’s skin, it was creepy. He once had to create a portrait of Cricket Antoinette on some rabid fan’s chest. It was an experience he would rather not repeat.

”I don’t know who Nik is,” he said in between two crunches of peanuts. He wasn’t at all implying that he cared, but he wasn’t about to discuss some random stranger unless Theo explained himself. Even then, he probably wouldn’t care. Licking the edge of his gums, he held out his hand and offered Theo his bag of peanuts. He wasn’t sure why he was feeling so generous. First a joke, and now he was willing to share his peanuts? And allowing him to stay in the parlor? Matteo would be genuinely surprised at his behavior. He was surprised at himself. Theo couldn’t be all that special, so it must’ve been his mood. He had to be in a better mood. He couldn’t pinpoint why, but that was the reason.

Constellations, he said. He could do that. ”We have a book of all the constellations,” he started, pointing to the back storage room. The door was propped open because his coworker was inside, probably hiding. ”We have a lot of books with designs in them. Most of them are mine.” He was proud to say it, but nothing in his tone indicated such. He was all monotone all the time. He hardly noticed these days. ”Want to see some?”

[/presto]

[[nyte]]

t h e o d o r e  h a r t

Arsen doesn't seem like the kind to share his peanuts with anybody, so it's best I take him up on the offer. My hands shake and a constant nausea has found its home in the pit of my stomach, but I grab one nonetheless, chewing on the end of it absentmindedly. I don't know who Nik is. Right. Sometimes I forget that my brother's death affected literally nobody but me. My parents hated him (maybe were even glad to see him go.) Jordan didn't give a fuck about him either way. Only I cried when my brother passed and I know it. "He was my brother." I reply, the nonchalance in my tone surprisingly genuine. "He died about a month ago." My lips curl to one side, creating an apathetic grimace as I pop the rest of the peanut into my mouth. 

He tells me more about the tattoos and he seems rather fucking intent on getting me one. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to finally have something permanent in my life but there's no way in hell I'm pulling up my sleeves in front of this dead faced boy. I don't want to hear a dry remark, I don't want to hear any more apathy from anyone and so I know it's best just to shut my mouth and hope for the best. (that's what Jordan tells me when I try to push him off on nights he's had too much to drink.) the thought sends a violent shiver down my spine. 

I'm about to tell him I'd like to base the tattoo off my own constellations when my eyes find the window and a familiar head of hair stands out from the crowd. It's almost creepy, how often Jordan and I end up in the same vicinity. My heart crawls into my throat and I swear to god I'm trying to listen to Arsen but I can't take my eyes off the man I'd do just about anything to avoid right now. "Fuck, fuck fuck." The words escape with an exhale and I pound my fists against Arsen's counter, suddenly shaking as though naked in winter's first snow. 

"Do I want to see some designs?!" My voice breaks, words rushed and choked. I need to get away from the window, need to get anywhere but here because he'll drag me out by my hair and I don't want to be with him. I've never wanted to. "Yes!" My voice is near a screech as I grab his wrist and try to pull him to the back of the store. "Yeah! Show me all of t-them anywhere but at this counter!" The bright smile upon my lips shakes so violently it hurts to keep my lips upturned.

(Please save me.) The plea hides behind my words, head turning towards the window once more as my Demon draws closer with every second. I don't know how one man can strike this much fear within my limbs, how one man can turn me from a cocky piece of shit into a mewling child begging for a savior. "A-a-anywhere but here." The words are barely more than a hoarse whisper.

[Python]

Arsen Rauv

Theo took a single peanut. Now Arsen could confidently say that he was a freak. Not the bad kind of freak that terrified children in the dead of night, but a freak nonetheless. He didn’t know all of the subtypes of freaks; would Theo classify as a cute freak, or a nice freak? Maybe a charming kind of freak that people could endure and enjoy, but his quirks would stand out enough to make each person pause and think ”Yes, he’s definitely a freak.”

Honestly, who takes one peanut?

He didn’t complain. More peanuts for him. He popped two more into his mouth and tried to ignore Theo’s weird ass-nibbling. You don’t nibble peanuts, Theo. Who was this kid, some kind of savage? Maybe he didn’t know the proper peanut-eating etiquette. If he was going to insist on loitering and trying to befriend him, he would have to learn. Arsen could teach him after he inked his first tattoo – hopefully a constellation, and a good one at that. Not one of the boring ones.

Arsen felt his heart ache, like someone had flicked it while he wasn’t looking. He didn’t like that. Some boy’s words shouldn’t have such a physiological effect on him; it had to be the morbidity and the timing. His brother died only a month ago. That was so soon. One moon cycle. Was that why he was so weird and chipper? A façade to distract himself from the sadness and fool others into believing his happiness? Arsen hadn’t even attempted that charade. He didn’t care enough about other people’s opinions to bother. Everyone had known how much of a fucking wreck he had been. How miserable he was. How heartbroken he felt. It was a visible scar.

Scars didn’t fade, so he was still wearing his a year later.

”Oh,” he muttered apologetically, yet his words lacked the legitimate apology. He didn’t want to actively apologize. He hated it when people said sorry about his mom and his baby sister, like he wanted their pity or their sorrow.

Not at all.

He finished off his peanuts and tossed the bag into the garbage nearby. Theo’s fists slamming into the counter startled him, and he flinched. He barely registered the string of curses. He turned to find out what had gotten into him, only to find that there were no answers, just Theo trembling like he had spiders in his clothes. Arsen scrunched his face into an unamused grimace and waited for him to explain this strange episode of behavior. Instead, Theo just stammered at him and grabbed his wrist without consent. He had to go look at designs away from the counter. Why? Was there something scary at the counter? Was there a bug in his parlor? Oh hell no.

Theo sounded like a scared child. What a freak, but he complied. ”This way,” he growled, marching into the back room of the store where his coworker was lounging in a chair with a book open in his lap. ”Oh, is this a customer?” he asked, pushing his glasses up.

”No,” he drawled, and pulled Theo inside harshly.

”Then who—“

”Get out.”

”What? But why-“

”Because we’re gonna make out,” He stood behind his coworker’s wheely chair and rolled him outside, then slammed the door shut behind him. He whirled around to face Theo and pointed a finger at him. ”Don’t touch me like that,” he said sternly, ”Now explain yourself.”

[[nyte]]

t h e o d o r e  h a r t

I feel like I'm going to collapse upon Arsen. My high fades with every passing moment, security blanket slipping away into nothing. The weight of the world firmly plants itself upon my shoulders, shattering my bones beneath it. He leads me to a back room, kicking someone out in a way that would have brought a blush to my cheeks had my heart not been a nanosecond away from exploding, from leaving a Theo-flavored mess upon the floor. "Don't touch me like that." He commands and I answer with fervent nods and rushed apologies, doubling over with my hands upon my knees. I might be sick.

My lungs revolt, gravelly noises escaping them with every breath. It's like someone has shoved cotton down my throat, an uncomfortable scratching hitching every other breath. "Now explain yourself." (if only I could.) I have no intention of telling Arsen the truth, not the whole one anyway. My whole life is made up of half truths and whole lies, it's become a habit for gross dishonesties to leave my lips. 

This lie is too similar to a truth. "Y-you know how I was talking about getting my ass beat? H- he was outside. If he saw me- if he saw me..." relief leaves me in a loud sob, legs collapsing beneath me as I press my face against my hands. I've lost all composure. It's been so long since this has happened. (in front of a stranger no less.) Because I'm on my knees in front of him fighting the tears that I've held captive for a long, long time. I'm not going to be hurt. I'm not going to feel his palm against my face or a steel toed boot to my gut. He won't call me those awful things and force me to do everything I've never wanted to. Jordan can't make me do any of those things now because he can't see me. (i win. you lose)

I'm in a secluded room. I'm alone (save for the dead faced boy I've collapsed in front of.) I'm safe for the first time in a long, long while. "Listen," my voice shakes. "I'm sorry I didn't mean to grab you or to- to offend you I just didn't- he'd have pulled me out of here and he'd be so mad because I was supposed to meet with him today but I ditched him and-," it takes all I can to force down another sob. To keep my voice the same monotone of Arsen's so that I don't appear weak and he doesn't kick me out because I don't know if Jordan is still loitering around the square. "Fuck I know it seems crazy but thank you so, so much Arsen. You just saved my ass." 

And I've been too serious too long. Sitting upright and rubbing my eyes violently, I look up at him, half grin resting upon my lips. "And are we making out?" (Arsen is surely like no one I've ever met before. I think Mew would like him.) 

[Python]

Arsen Rauv

Arsen blinked at him. By “explain yourself” he hadn’t meant for Theo to burst into hysterics and collapse to his knees like he was dying. It happened anyway, and Arsen stood stock still like a crooked pillar as a heavy blanket of awkward tension doused the room in heat. He hadn’t seen anyone suspicious standing outside, but perhaps that was because he hadn’t been interested in looking. He never cared who loitered on the other side of the glass door, as long as they weren’t obstructing the entryway. Why was he acting so terrified? If Arsen knew some asshole was about to beat him up, sure, his heart would probably quicken in pace and form knots in his chest, but he would just defend himself.

Maybe Theo was a wimp at fighting. He could see it, actually. The helplessness. It was sad. Not the pitiful kind of sad, but a legitimate sadness that made his heart feel colder and heavier. Who was abusing this bubbly weirdo, and why? The way he spoke of him made him sound like a boyfriend. He had said he was “taken” after all, by this ball and chain that would bash his head in if he did something without permission. What had he said about that? Oh, right. ”That’s none of my business.”

Perhaps he had been a bit too insensitive.

”There there,” he said, lightly patting his shoulder.

Theo thanked him regardless. As a bonus, he apologized for his unsolicited wrist grabbing. It was a satisfactory string of words that left him standing in a grateful silence. He didn’t know what else to say or do to comfort this battered boyfriend, so he waited. A hug would be awkward at this angle; Theo was on his knees and Arsen was on two feet, and honestly it looked a bit weird. He was not about to crouch down for his sake either. Too much effort.

And then Theo jumped back into his old shoes, as if his persona were a costume he simply slipped on when he needed it. It was confusing as hell, but if it was a method to hide the pain then fine, he would play along. ”No, you’re crying. You would taste too salty,” he said, stepping back. He now considered the downside to joking about their intentions to his coworker. If a customer walked in, he doubted they would try to fetch him from the room so he could do his work.

Oh well.

”We’re going to look at books instead.” He lowered himself into a chair and snatched one of his design booklets. It wasn’t the constellation book, but it was still his book with his designs decorating each and every page. A year’s worth of work. He gestured Theo to join him and opened it up to the first page.