nobody covers for the matador {nemo/tate}

[[nyte]]

T A T E

And somehow, I always knew it'd end like this. Pain rakes its way throughout my abdomen, several gashes throbbing but I can't quite decipher where the pain is greatest. It has all melded together, so that I can feel the demons' claws sunk into the skin on my back. Feel their gentle tugs and caresses as they pull me

d
o
w
n

And down I go. White hot flames licking at my skin, hellfire sent to punish a dying man. 

He's already dead. Figures I'd carve one more notch into my flesh before falling into step with my brother and my mother before him. (It has been so long since they took him away. I can't decide what prospect is more horrifying. That Teddy still breathes, or that he's long dead.) The blood comes quickly, thickly across my cheeks. And the tears spill from the gaping wounds upon my stomach soaking the dark material upon my hips. My body writhes, splashing in the pools of my own blood and in the blood of my attacker, silver jammed gently into his throat.

I can't feel anything anymore. Not the thudding of my heart or the bitter winds against my face. I think it might be raining, or this familiar sound is that of thick red tears sliding down factory drains. Into the oceans that I was never able to see. Into the oceans whose existence has never mattered to me before.

But now they will hold more of myself than I ever have.

And in spite of myself a cry leaves my lips. A pitiful, awful groan slithering between a body turning cold and the harsh night air. Because the pain, an awful, wonderful pain occupies the whole of what was once Tate Seraphim. And I'm scared. I'm so fucking scared of death that I can't help but cling to the final strands of life however persistently I've been asking for death.

It's not that I want to die. I've never wanted to die.

It's that I deserve death for every sin engraved within my body. My scars a chronicle of the lives I've taken and of the numerous ways I deserve to have my own life ripped from my grasp. 

This. This fate is tame.

Even as my moans rip into the silent night I know I deserve so much more. 

He didn't deserve it. The boy I'd killed. The catalyst for this whole terrible day and for these two terrible deaths (and one that I've been waiting a long time for). He didn't know that his brother (the one already cooling a few feet away from me) had killed one of our best men. Oh, he made it so apparent that he had no clue. His name was Troy, he had blonde hair and the eyes of an angel. Innocent and blue until they weren't. Until I'd kicked the light out of them. And then he screamed until he couldn't. Screamed until I drew thick black thread across his lips and sewed them together so that his last moments were in silence. I stole his last words without so much as the blink of an eye.

It had made sense, then. He took one of ours. We took one of his. 

But Troy was innocent.

Until he was dead.

And I remember him because I didn't burn this one. I couldn't erase my sin. I gave him to the boys and they left him on the doorstep of his older brother and let him revel in the death, the one that was all his fault. In the torture his little brother had endured before death. 

Troy hated his brother. 

He told me before I stuck a knife into his neck.

What bitter irony that his brother met the same fate.

My chest rattle when I breathe, every breath taking so much energy that the corners of my eyes go white with strain. I don't want to go. I deserve this. I really, really do. But I don't want to go. 

I wonder how many hours Troy's brother had wasted on me. Trying to find me. To find a name. To find vengeance. Or maybe he just saw me, maybe he smelt the weakness curling off of my skin like sick cologne. 

I don't keep a weapon with me, the long nights I stroll around the district. 

I don't care enough.

A new wave of pain overcomes me and I curl in on myself, slowly shrinking and shrinking and shrinking into nothingness. I get smaller by the second and soon I will disappear and all the pain will be gone. But I don't want it to go. I don't want to die. I let out another groan, trying to regain control of my numb limbs to no avail. They are already dead, I think. 

And I know why I don't want to go. It's a selfish reason really. 

I know that my brothers would be better off without me. I know that it'll hurt them but it's better without my constant worrying and holding them too tight against my chest. Because I've been so scared of losing them for so long. It'll hurt them but in the end they'll be glad that I am gone. I've never been as strong as them. I'm the oldest. The weakest. The most flawed.

We all know it but they've never said it.

The blood gushing through my fingers is ink enough across paper pavement. 

It's been said.

One more pitiful scream and into the further

i

f
a
l
l

Nemo. My lips wrap around his name, but no sound leaves them. I am a spirit trapped within a corpse. Everything is cold. I cannot feel the ground beneath me as I scream. Nemo. He is why I so selfishly cling to life. Even though I deserve to die and even though I deserve this pain I just want to be with him. And I hope that he knows I love him. I think I have told him enough times. 

I'm never going to get to tell him again.

I'm never going to see him again.

Ouch.

I think I've been stabbed again. 

wish i was there,
wish i was there
to turn the
b l a d e

[gamemaker kelsier]

"I'm serious guys," I tell the three men that stand before me, "Unless you give me what I came for, I'll blow us all sky high." I stand comfortably, slouching slightly like the gawky teenager I am despite the row of grenades strapped to my chest in a neat little row. One tug of a string and they'll be set in one foul swoop. After that we'd only have to wait seconds before we're all nothing more than flying limbs, burning away into charred bits of ash. If they could see beneath the scarf that covers the lower half of my face, they'd catch my easy grin and maybe think that I was joking. Maybe I am joking, maybe I'm not. None of us know. I've never thought about what I'd do if someone actually tried to attack me. My self-preservation instinct has always been lacking something important. Tate tells me so often, especially since that night a couple of weeks ago when he pulled that needle out of my chest. I suppose if they attacked me I'd do as promised and pull the string. Before now, that thought never bothered me much. I enjoy life but I always suspected that death could be a nice break from the struggle of trying to figure out where my next meal is coming from. I'm nearly one hundred percent sure that when I'm dead, nothing will matter much. Now I've got Tate to worry about. I care about him a lot, last time when I woke up, stomach killing me and brow slick with sweat his eyes were rimmed with red. He'd been crying. He'd kissed my skin despite its heat and he'd whispered sad broken things against my flesh, all of them laced with fear. "I thought I'd lost you." I don't want to get blown up, despite the swift and easy death, I think I'm one hundred and ten percent invested in Tate Seraphim. However I stand my ground, one hand gripping the string as the men in front of me stand still, tense with fear and frustration. They mutter among themselves, gesturing angrily. The fact of the matter is, they can shout and moan all that they want, they're my hostages. I'm also my hostage. (I'm also an idiot.) They know this. There's not a soul in the factory district that doesn't know this because I am well known for how much of an idiot that I am. I work very hard to keep that facade strong. "You hear 'bout that kid who nearly blew his own leg off robbing a factory last night?Shards 'a glass all up his leg, he had." I've got the scars from that night to prove it, dozens of white little dots and lines in my upper thighs. I got wasted on Nel's moonshine only two hours after and couldn't walk well for two weeks. They hand over two thousand, five hundred and thirteen dollars in cash and I leave, hands in my pockets and at my own pace, never looking back even once. Either I'm a cocky bastard or an idiot. I choose idiot. It's a wise man who plays the fool. I'm no wise man but I'm no fool either. As soon as I'm out of sight, I break into a run, letting out a woop of joy from beneath my scarf. I've got a meeting with my parent's dealers tomorrow, she said that she had a new batch ready, put aside just for me. Aunty Brooks from down the street said she's been needing money for food real bad and I can also give some of the cash to the Elliots for their two little tikes. James Elliot has been needing a new pair of shoes. Maybe I can use whatever is left over to take Tate out for once instead of him always treating me. My cheeks heat up at the thought of Tate and I nearly change my direction, thinking I should go and see him tonight. I think he said he was working though. I don't want to bother him if he is, I don't want him to know how clingy I a- I trip, feet hitting an object in the dark that feels like a sack of grain but when my knees hit pavement sticky and wet, I know it to be a body. I know it's a body becuse it didn't cry out when my foot hit it. That's nothing new. I live in the slums, I'm used to bodies. Still, I curse lightly from the pain in my knees and the knowledge that I'm going to need to get blood out of yet another pair of pants. It's the soft whimpering I hear coming from beside me in the dark that concerns me. Someone is still alive. I don't know if I should see if they need help or not because it could be an enemy. I guess I've got quite a few enemies though. If I stop helping people just because they're in an opposing gang to Tate's then I'll have to stop helping everyone. I'm not like that. I'm an idiot. Idiots are good at stumbling in and out of messes so I decide to see who this poor bugger is. I crawl over to the other body, lying on it's side, legs curled up loosely, arms covering his stomach, black, shortish hair, a weird gangly frame, gorgeous neck, very lovely shoulder to waist ratio and an ass that won't qui- "Tate?" The question leaves my lips before I even understand that the boy bleeding out on the asphalt is someone I know. For one wild moment I ask Ripred to let it not be him, to let it be someone else who looks exactly like him, for it to be someone else that is as hot as the kid I love but when I put my hand on his shoulder and gently roll him onto his back, it's Tate's face, sure as day staring up at me. There's blood all over his shirt and my hands shake as they trace his jawline, wondering if he's even still alive. He's breathing, long and shuddering breaths that fill up the night air like a ghost rattling it's chains. Tenderly my hands slide down to his, pulling at where he's holding in his blood or at least trying to. Fear grips me as it feels the slickness of his skin. "No, no, no, no, no," I whisper as if it will help. Quickly, I pull off my sweater and bunch it up, pressing it against his skin, applying pressure like old Nel taught me to, like she had me do on my own wounds so many times. "What happened to you buddy?" I ask him, voice strangely calm despite the absolute panic filling up my head. "Are you going somewhere?"

[presto] N E M O sixteen male nine Wish i was there wish i was there [/presto]

[[nyte]]

He's got a smile like the sun. Lopsided and stunning, impossible to look away from and so painful that I have to kiss it away. A beautiful sort of painful. I don't think he knows that. I don't think he understands how breathless I get from a single glance or what the thought of him can do to me. Because he blushes and he looks away, he waves his hand when I tell him because he mistakes my truths for compliments. I'll convince him someday... or at least I was going to. But as numbness crawls up my fingertips, like needles and pins pressed into dead flesh, I don't think I'll get the chance.  Maybe I should ask Teva or Tripp to do it. To convince him that he's perfect because I'm going to die here and I'll be lonely and cold and I don't want him to feel like this. Not ever. I'll miss him, wherever I'm going. But just maybe he won't have to miss me too. I don't want him to hurt because of me. I don't want to hurt him. Not even when I'm cold and dead and bugs have started burrowing into my skin. The only company I'll have, when I get to Hell.  I'm so cold. I'm so cold and scared and lonely. I've been toying with death for so long that it is foolish to reject it now. But I'm so cold. But I'm so scared. But I just want to see them again. Teddy and Tripp and Teva and Nemo and Cal. One last embrace and I could fall into an endless sleep easily.  Perhaps I'll see Mom. Will she still led lodged in her skull? Will her face be aged and weathered, tired like she was before the peacekeepers took her away? Or maybe she'll be young and beautiful again. Happy in her death. (But I don't think death is a happy thing.)  I'm so scared that scalding fear leaks from the corners of my eyes and I'm trying to move my fingers but they won't listen to me anymore. I think I really am going to die soon. My heaving breaths are slow and thick, mirroring a heart turned blue with frost. Thoughts move like mud through my mind and it's hard to think. It hurts so badly to live that maybe it's time not to; because no one is going to save me. I think I should just close my eyes and sleep for the first time since mom died. I'd like to sleep.  I'm so tired. There's a soft ruffling from far away. It pulls me by my eyelids back to  the asphalt and I want to cry because I can feel it. I can feel my legs drawn loosely to my chest and how they throb. I can feel blood pouring through my fingers and I can feel my spine burning bright blue. The pain is back and it was so close to being gone forever that I cry like a child been denied their favorite sweet.  The sound gets closer and I wonder if someone has found me. Perhaps a rival gang member come to laugh . I'd deserve that I think. Maybe it'd be enough to coax me back into the sweet numbness that was so rudely ripped from my grasp.  "Tate?"  Oh no, no, no, no. Soft fingers turn me skyward and his eyes have taken their rightful place as stars in the night because they are all I can see. They slowly come into focus after an effort that leaves my head spinning. I recognize that fear. It's what I saw the night he died. When he pushed me to the ground and told me I was dying and I cried because it was him. It was always him who needed saving.  I think Nemo might be magic because here we are.  His hands trace my jaw and I lean into his touch, smile snaking across pale lips as I look at him. I wanted to see him, one last time. I wanted to feel his touch and I wanted him to hold me until the end.  But it didn't matter what I wanted because he shouldn't have to see me like this. Because I'm hurting him right now and I was never supposed to do that.  I try to apologize but all that comes out is a mangled cry.  He pulls his sweater off and presses it against my stomach, earning a gentle hiss as  pain suddenly bubbles through my throat and out my mouth in the form of thick, red iron. "What happened to you, Buddy?" I exhale a bit, smile broadening because I think it's a bit obvious what happened to me. I was murdered. Right here on the asphalt. Couldn't he see my body? Smell the death? "Are you going somewhere?" I steel myself, lifting a heavy limb and placing my hand carefully upon his cheek, accidentally staining it a thick crimson without thinking. "Hey beautiful." I murmur, voice hoarse and dry, throat sore from all the breathing I'd been doing. "You should p-p-put that jacket back o-on. You'll c-c-catch a cold." Nemo never takes enough care of himself. He's worrying about others constantly, caring for a family that wants to kill him and giving money to the poor like that one story I read to Teddy. The one about the hero that was named after a bird or something.  That's what Nemo is, really. A hero. My hero.

[presto] T A T E seventeen male district 9 Nobody covers for the matador [/presto]

[gamemaker kelsier]

N E M O  K L A R D I  E

I hold his hand to my cheek, fear sweeping through me in quick strokes, staccato and frightened. I'm afraid. I've never been so afraid. Tate was supposed to be the safe one. He was supposed to be safe. He died so many times in my head, it wasn't supposed to be like this. He told me that it was fake, that it was nightmares, that morning after forests grew through the floorboards and fire melted the rivers of ice beneath my skin.

He tells me to put on a jacket and I want to cry. He sounds bad, weak. I don't like that, him sounding that way. My heart races with fear. I want to laugh, make a stupid joke about how I'm always warm with him around because it's true. I can't make my mouth work like that, I can't laugh now, not with him like this.

"Idiot," a chuckle turns into a little sob and I fold myself in half further, wondering if I could just keep going until I disappear with a little pop. This isn't supposed to be happening tonight. This isn't supposed to be happening. He isn't meant to be dying.

His hand holds barely any strength but I feel a wetness on my cheek and I don't want to know what it is. It can't be anything but his blood. A sob escapes my throat and I shut my eyes for a moment, hoping that when I open them the scene will have changed again. I'd take the stalking shadows back, the horrible pain in my chest. I'd take them back if only this could be a dream too.

I hold my sweater against him, wishing it were easier to hold him together, wishing I knew how. Tate's the one who knows what to do, how to take care of people. All I'm good for is blowing things up and making a mess. I've made a mess of Tate, like I make a mess of everything. "Tell me this is another nightmare" I beg him, half wild with fear. I can't tell how badly he's ruined. I'm no doctor, that's Old Nel.

I have to take him to her but I'm afraid to move him and I'm afraid to leave him alone. I'm scared that if I pick him up then he'll die in my arms. If I leave him to get Old Nel and he dies here without me then I'd never forgive myself. I don't have time to waste in trying to figure out what to do but I can't think either. My head is screaming. I think back to five minutes ago when I had a grin plastered to my face beneath my scarf and I was on top of the world, thinking about how I should go see him.

He found me tonight.

I didn't find him.

My scarf fell down around my neck at some point in this horrible waking dream and tears roll down the sides of my face, thick and hot. I didn't want to cry. Crying has never been a natural reaction for me, reserved for when I really need them. I feel like I'm always crying with Tate around and always over him dying. Some part of me can't compute that this time it's for real. I bow my head and press down on my sweater, desperation making my limbs too light. The sweater is already damp with his blood. I don't know what to do.

I'm so afraid.

"You weren't supposed to go without me," I tell him, voice only breaking once through my tears, "Remember, you told me that you wouldn't, Tate." Some small, childish part of me is mad, livid at him for lying to me. That small part of me that knows anger, that remembers how to feel it, that roars every time my dad hits me. That part of me is mad. It'll always be weak in comparison to all the rest of me that's submissive and too used to being sad.

I wipe angrily at my tears with my free arm, knowing that they aren't helping anything, knowing that they'll only make Tate feel worse. I know that I have to do something, that I can't just sit here with jelly legs hoping that everything will work out. It's been years since anyone gave enough of a shit about me to actually care like Tate does and I'm not ready to lose him yet.

I'm full of questions, ones that I know that he'll never fully answer. I want to know about the dead body I tripped over, I want to know why he would be in this area at this time of night. I want to know why he'd be alone.

I guess the answer lies somewhere in the fact that the very first time I met him, he was sitting on the railing of a bridge, leaning over the edge, hands raw and bloody from holding onto the rusty railing so tight. Fucking gorgeous prick.

"I'm going to pick you up, Tate," I tell him, voice firm once again. I'm not letting Tate die on me, he's all I've got. He's my knight in slightly faded black. Even though it's only been a couple of months I sorely doubt that I could go back to a life without him. I don't think I'd want to.

Carefully, I remove the grenades, putting them around my waist instead, out of the way. Gritting my teeth, I lift him up, tensing in response to his sounds of pain. I try to cradle him carefully and I move one of his hands so he's holding the sweater in place. There's no force to his hold. This is going to hurt him. A lot. "Stay with me."

I run.

[[nyte]]

T A T E

It always hurts when Nemo cries. A deep kind of throbbing spreading throughout my chest, adding to the agony. I writhe gently underneath the pressure on my abdomen, ignoring the screams that lay dormant upon my lips. It'd upset Nemo if I screamed. He's already so upset, eyes tinged red as rivers leave his eyes. As much pain as I'm in, I cannot scream. Because I have to protect Nemo and he looks so vulnerable right here that I feel any sound could shatter him into a thousand pieces upon the pavement and I'd be alone again. I clench my jaw, trying to keep my breathing steady as bright white crawls into the corners of my eyes. 

"Idiot..." His voice is laced with sorrow, a sob coming from somewhere deep in his chest. I smile at him lazily, a single corner of my mouth twitching as fondness for this boy leaks gently from the corner of my eyes. I love him, I love him so fucking much but I don't have the strength to tell him to I meet his eyes and try to tell him that way.

"Yeah..." I slur, lips sticking together as I speak. "But I'm your idiot." I curl my fingers into his shirt, trying to close all distance between us. And the fire comes back, white hot as it tears through my skin. My eyes force themselves shut, body tensing as my heart forgets to beat. It's agony. Every part of my body screaming in protect but I do not. I clench my jaw and I wait for it to end, hoping that Nemo had not noticed the pause. It probably wasn't that long.

I've always been exceptional at dealing with pain. "Tell me this is a nightmare." His voice is hoarse, desperate and soft in my ears. I furrow my brows in concentration, trying to figure out if this was indeed an awful dream and that I would wake up with Nemo in my arms, back against my chest as light spills through my window. And I could place a kiss upon his neck and look out into a world that was so bitter and ugly without him. 

"...No." I drawl slowly, wading through water that makes everything hard to concentrate upon. "If this was a nightmare.... you.... would be dying." I catch my breath in between words, swallowing the screams that would hurt Nemo more than me. "That's.... always.... always how my.... nightmares.... how they... are." My head lolls back, neck unable to support it any longer as feeling continues to seep from m body in bright red coloring. I've ruined his jacket, I realize, looking at the stained red cloth that would be impossible to wash out. 

But I don't want Nemo to see this. It was selfish, wishing him here, tempting fate to bring him to me. I don't want Nemo to see me bleed out, to see my body go limp and for my last breath to drain me of life. I don't want him to see that every time he closes his eyes. 

Enough people I love have died for me to know just how horrid a fate that is. 

"You weren't supposed to go without me. Remember, you told me that you wouldn't, Tate." 

His words burn, voice breaking just as it snaps my spine in half and I'm left looking at him in horror, eyes wide and welling with tears that were not caused by the pain. I promised.

I promised him. 

Tears spill down my cheeks, warming them as I look at him with so much regret that it has overcome all other feeling. I've been so selfish, trying to die. Leaving Teva and Tripp and Cal who all need me. Leaving Nemo who is so pure and wholesome and beautiful that every morning I wake with him in my arms the world is so much brighter than it ever was. Who can change my world with a stupid grin and a sudden kiss. 

Teddy. Leaving my little brother who would need me when he came home.

If he came home.

It's my fault. All my fault. I'm so fucking stupid. So fucking stupid. 

Sudden strength curls my fingers within his shirt, turning my body gently so that I can press my face into his shoulder and sob. "I promised." I mumble into him, body shaking and worsening the pain that never left me. "Babe, I... I'm so..." But there are no words left to say and no strength left within me. I go limp within his arms once more, keeping my head on his shoulder because it feels so fucking good to be close to him. He smells familiar by now, of gunpowder and rivers, of something wonderfully sweet that I could never quite identify. 

He smells of fear too.

Nemo tells me he's going to pick me up and I manage a feeble nod, too tired to argue as I close my eyes and enjoy the feeling of him. I could fall asleep here. I'm so tired. 

The pain comes back when he moves, whines that I try to contain leaving my lips in bitter sharp sounds as fresh waves of blood crawl down my soaked shirt and onto my back, turning cold in the night air. My breath shakes as we move, desperate breaths trying to calm my beating heart as Nemo moves. The motion tugs tears at my wounds, splitting them further as I try to stay conscious. 

"I'm... so... sorry." my voice is only slightly louder than the wind's whisper. "...you mean everything... to me. don't... cry." He placed my hand atop the soaked sweater but I do not care, instead moving it carefully to the back of his neck and grasping gently at strands of his hair. "It'll... be... okay. You... have to go see... my brothers. They'll take... care of..." I lick my lips, nearly gagging on the metallic taste soon crawling down my throat "Tell... Teva I owed... you... a jacket... okay?"

to wipe his tears
to shield his bones
and let the lightning gore my
s o u l

[gamemaker kelsier]

N  E  M  O

"WISH I WAS THERE TO TURN THE BLADE, TO WIPE HIS TEARS, TO SHIELD HIS BONES  AND LET THE LIGHTENING GORE MY SOUL."

I've always been good at fooling myself into thinking that I was surviving. After years of the same old thing, you begin to get used to those things until they become the norm. Take my neighbors for instance. Naomi and Jebediah are in their sixties and don't believe in clothing. No one remembers to be shocked when they see them doing their yard work naked, fishing at the river naked, strolling through the slums naked, being naked in general because we have acclimated to it. I think it'd be weird to see them wearing clothes at this point. It'd be like someone putting clothing on a fish and making it tap dance, although I'm sure that after a few weeks of that we'd get used to it too.

Human beings are good at taking miracles for granted, that's what makes us so human.

So I've always been good at surviving, or so I thought until I met Tate.

Tate's saved me too many times to count now. He'd argue and say that it was one time but it isn't true. Every time I see him I feel like I'm safe. Just seeing him makes me safe and for the longest time I forgot what that feels like. I hadn't felt it in so damn long. I was waiting for that feeling to go away, to adapt to the happiness that blooms somewhere down in the pit of my stomach every time that he comes near me but it hasn't yet.

I don't think that I could continue without it either.

If my parents are addicted to morphling then I think I must be addicted to Tate, which is cliche and stupid an by rights should make me throw up from the cutesy thought of it alone, but it doesn't. It can't. I need him to live because when he's around, I feel okay, not like I'm going to die any second, there is no knowledge deep down that no one loves me because for once I think that there is.

And he's currently bleeding out in my arms.

A cocktail of fear and desperation is making my stomach churn and I want to stop and throw up because the scent of Tate's blood and the sight of his torso is making me sick but I can't. I can't stop because if he dies then I am all alone again, and there is no feeling of safety and there is no scent of Tate on my pillow.

There is no boy on a bridge.

I can't bear that thought.

My arms feel like they're made of putty and I'm already panting not even half-way to the slums but I can't stop because if I stop I lose him and if I lose him then I will never forgive myself. If this were reversed, I know Tate would stop at nothing to save me, even if he couldn't breath, he'd keep on running. So I'm not going to fail him.

He's crying.

It isn't like I haven't seen him cry before.

Tate cries over a lot of things actually. He cried the other day because of a stuffed bear that someone had forgotten on the sidewalk. A few days before that he was crying over a lost shoe and a few days before that he cried because Teva was meant to be watching dinner and he accidentally let it burn.

I like it when he cries.

Ew, no, I'm not into that kinky shit.

I just like it when he cries because he smells like hot pavement in the summer after it rains and for at least ten minutes he lets me wrap my arms around him in public. He presses his face into my shoulder and I rub his back and for a moment he relies on me. For the smallest of moments he relinquishes control and lets someone else take care of him for once.

I don't like this crying.

This is desperate crying, guilt-ridden crying.

"Fuck you Tate," I puff out, vehemence lost with my gasping breathes, "I don't want a dumb jacket you asshole."

Maybe it's not good to swear at the dying but I'm pretty sure I have an emotional defense mechanism that turns me into a bitch at any given notice commonly called 'puberty hormones'.

"Press down on the sweater, babe," I say more kindly, "We're almost there."

It's true too. The bridge is in sight and then it's just a five minute walk down the hill to my house which is right across the street from Old Nan's.

"Five minutes. Seven tops."

I try to keep my voice firm past the gasping, to keep the begging out.

Just hold on for that long.

[[nyte]]

T A T E

It feels like it was centuries ago that Nemo and I sat upon the quarry floor, smoke and shrapnel filling our lungs as the world crumbled peacefully around us. Quietly so as to not disturb the moment. I appreciated that. The scars on my palms were still fresh then, stung with tiny rocks dug into the open flesh but I didn't feel it, not until night fell and I had said goodbye to the pretty boy with the mangled face and the death wish. Nemo always had that affect on me, made me numb to everything but the gentle pounding of my heart and the swell of my throat. Love, lust, whatever it might have been, it was beautiful thing. Beautiful like the boy now tugging me by my fingers deep down into the unknown. It'd upset him if I told him how much his tugging hurts, and so I sew my lips shut with drying blood and I look up at him. Nemo.

It was on that quarry floor that he kissed me. It wasn't my first kiss, no, that was claimed by a snotty boy who sat next to me most of fourth grade, with big and pretty lips that tasted like salt and something bitter and rotten. My first kiss was more than a bust. I came home to Mom ranting and raving about how awful it was, I told her with certainty that I was never gonna kiss a boy again because he tried to eat my face and he bit my lip so hard that it bled and swelled an ugly purple shade. I remember that Mom laughed, pressing a cold towel to my lips and ruffling my already mussed hair. She seemed so certain that I didn't mean it, you'll be kissing boys by the end of the week, Tate. It was one bad kiss. You're such a little hothead.

Nemo wasn't my first kiss or my second or third or fourth. I suppose Mom was right, she always was, because I had shared so many meaningless kisses by the time I met Nemo that I didn't believe the sparks, the want and the need suddenly so potent through my veins by only the simple embrace of lips and the touch of a hand that my knees went weak and my heart went still. Nemo's kiss left me breathless.

I told Teva about him some time after our date (the one that ended in tears and blood and death.) I was terrified to tell him, to tell anyone about the beautiful boy who seemed to be only mine. Perhaps he would slip through my fingers, fade into nothingness once I told another soul that he existed. I was too selfish for that, to risk him leaving me alone and scared and yet again unable to fill this emptiness.

They haven't met yet, Teva and Nemo, but Teva says he likes him. That he must be something special if I was dating him.

I assured him he was.

"Fuck you, Tate." I wince at the outburst, burying myself further into Nemo's chest, trying to escape into painlessness and to stop him from sounding so sad. It feels so wrong, directed toward me. I was supposed to make him happy. I was always supposed to make him happy. Never like this. I shouldn't hurt him. I want to apologize but I think that'll only make things worse.

The world is so, so small here, draped over Nemo's arms and trying to keep my eyes open through the earthquakes rattling my skull with every frenzied step. I am so small and so weak and so powerless. Stripped of the control that I have grasped so desperately at since mom's blood was left on the stage but her body was nowhere to be found.

His voice is softer when he tells me to press down on the sweater, tells me we'll be there soon. I can stop fighting then, I think. Fighting the darkness creeping into the corners of my vision, little snakes and spiders sliding down my cheeks, exhaustion creating galaxies with every shaky exhale. It hurts, it hurts so fucking bad that I want to die. It'd be so much easier just to let go here, for my last memory to be the rapid gunshots that is Nemo's heartbeat. I wouldn't have to worry about much of anything then.

"s'okay..." I manage although I think we left my throat somewhere in the navy darkness, "do you remember that night... when you found me on.... the bridge? the first time" I turn my head, laying a gentle kiss at the base of his neck, "i wasn't sure... for a long time I wasn't sure if I was... glad you found me... that night" every word is a mile run, a thousand years chopped of my shortened sentence,

"'m so glad you found me... so glad..."

So I'll stay with you to the very end, Nemo Klardie.

and when you call me
i'll be right down
and we'll go out in
s t y l e