fascination {fawn/asta}

[Python]

astaroth.

Originally, his father promised him that the stench of sweat, dirt, smoke, and leather in the underground ring was the natural scent of men. Now – sitting in a humid stew of this so-called “masculine” flavor – he decided that if this were true, he didn’t want to be interested in men anymore. Big Johnny was a furnace sitting beside him, wiping sweat off of his forehead after a fight’s worth of exercise. There was not a scratch on him – only a smudge of purple here and there, where someone managed to swipe him with their knuckles. ”You gonna shower?” Astaroth asked, eyebrow raised to the heavens as if secretly thinking, I’ll judge you if you don’t, nasty.

”Soon,” the brute mumbled. He sounded suspiciously insincere, but he wasn’t dumb enough to press on. He had a match to prepare for.

His dad was somewhere among the crowds of riled up men and women, cigar hanging from his lips and ashes decorating his stubble. He wouldn’t expect much from his son; his streak of disappointment stretched beyond prediction, and the withering self-confidence didn’t quite motivate him enough to improve. Victory was expected of an untrained, illegitimate child handpicked for no reason but to carry a legacy too heavy for his scrawny back. Whose fault was it? His own, of course. Dad aimed every blame at him like he was a target for archery practice, and there was no room left for holes. He was done with the bullshit, done with the insults and the crap excuses.

Yet here I am.

Who was he kidding? Surviving on his own? He couldn’t run away with empty pockets and no future. He wouldn’t last a week in the streets. As much as it pained him both physically and emotionally, he needed that bastard for food and shelter. In the meantime, at least. He planned to find an actual job after he turned eighteen and finished school. Then it’s goodbye, asshole. You’ll never have to see me again.

He wrapped his hands in bandages and bathed in the sounds of the crowd. Bottles of beer were clinking, friends were chatting, and spectators were betting. This place was always bustling with activity on Friday nights. People here lived for the fight – or lived to watch the fights for entertainment. Astaroth would rather sit on the sidelines like when he was eight years old, still innocent and confused about the world. Back before his dad ever slapped him for being a loser. Those were simpler and easier times. Now he was a landslide; it was all downhill from here, and he would reach rock bottom soon enough. He didn’t know what it would feel like. Hard and cold, probably.

He sighed.

The rubber ring bounced beneath his feet as he stepped under the rope. His opponent was approximately five inches taller than him – because he always boasted about his height to the ladies who never listened – and sported an ugly red cap, like it was supposed to be part of his fighting wardrobe or something. Astaroth wanted to roll his eyes, but couldn’t risk offending a giraffe. Some people were too dramatic with this fighting thing. Costumes and accessories were pushing it. All he needed was his not-so-lucky pair of black shorts, and a bare chest – not that it helped. It was just the “uniform” his dad encouraged him to wear. A classic, apparently.

The bets were on his opponent for certain. Nobody in their right mind would invest money on Astaroth, not even his own dad. Surely, as he hurled his first punch and nailed the giraffe in the jaw, his father’s eyes were hardly watching. The most he would do was wait until Astaroth was flat on his back, then shout his crude opinions into the ring for everyone to hear. Thanks, dad. Humiliation was infinite.

As a boulder of a knee struck his groin, he thought he saw stars. Weird.. Usually that only happened on the brink of unconsciousness, but perhaps the fire brewing in his lower half was sending the stars to his eyes as a distraction. He stumbled into the ropes and tried not to curl up in submission right then and there. He could handle a damn cheap shot from a wannabe career. It wasn’t fair; most of the competitors here had a background in career training, but his dad had believed in natural talent. Training wouldn’t be necessary for a champion like his son, right? Adopted or not.

What idiot would think that?

He wondered if his father realized he was an idiot for being an idealist. Ha, probably not. His only regret was “adopting a failure,” like it was Astaroth’s fault for having weak genetics and a neglectful moron as a dad. It was evident in his awkward steps that he was not built to be coordinated, but he managed. Barely. He struggled to land a few decent punches on the giraffe, but his arms were much longer. Fists made an assault on different parts of his body. The worst was on his spine. He really hated it when people aimed at such a sensitive weak point. You can take me out without being an ass, sheesh.

He was panting by the time giraffe landed the final blow to his gut. The sensation of gravity sucking every breath out of his body was miserable, and he didn’t want to be consumed by misery. As resilient as he was, he didn’t want this fight fucking him up too badly. The white flag was up. He rested his side against the rubber floor and waited for the inevitable cheers of his opponent’s fans. The uproar was deafening. It didn’t, however, outweigh the ache in his gut. He decided to roll out of the ring to avoid his father’s imminent bellows of unreasonable anger, and headed for the water fountain to swish the blood out of his mouth.

Exhaustion seeped through him. There would be an after party once the matches ended, but he wasn’t feeling up to it. The potential lays would all ignore him, and defeat wasn’t sexy. He just wanted to go home, shower, and sleep the world away.

Then he spotted an actual angel.

He blinked because religion wasn’t real, it was all crap. But beauty was, and it was standing in the corner looking lost. His blood churned hot and cold, making him tingle. He had to talk to them. (Is that a guy or a girl).

”Hey there, cutie.”

Even if he made a fool of himself.

table by ugky

[[nyte]]

I KNOW YOU WANNA GO TO HEAVEN

FAWN

BUT YOU'RE HUMAN TONIGHT

IF THERE'S A LIGHT AT THE END

Stephani isn't what I'd call a friend. She's barely an acquaintance and I don't know why I even agreed to come here because it's too loud and it's too noisy. The men smell like my father after a night's drinking and my skin crawls at the thought of him, of his hands around my neck and-

Don't think about it.

In the end that's all I can do. In the end it hurts too much to think of the potential nightmares that await me and so I focus on this one. Trapped in a room turned humid with sweat and blood and I could never stand the sight of blood. It makes my stomach churn, flip over upon itself and I'd quite like to throw up, I think. I hate crowds. I hate people. I hate all of this and I just want to go home but Stephani is gone and I am alone. I hate being alone.

Everything is cold, dark and frigid and I wonder if night has settled upon us because I cannot see the stars from here. The millions of suns I so find comfort in are gone and I am helpless. I am a doe surrounded by lions and I have never been more aware of it. Not even when dad has his way with me do I feel this vulnerable. With him, at least I know what to expect.

People are volatile, especially those who find enjoyment in such brutalities as beating the shit out of one another. I don't even want to think about what would happen if I managed to piss off the wrong person, hell, if I even managed to catch their attention. Sometimes I am punished for doing nothing at all and I just don't understand. It's how the world works, I know, but that doesn't mean I can't call fucking bullshit because I don't think I've ever done anything worse than swear in my life.

Then again, in seventeen years, I have not lived very much. People my age are drinking and fucking and here I am cooking dinner for my father every Sunday night just like mom used to. Here I am playing his wife because if he is satisfied he will not hurt me and I hate pain so goddamn much. Sometimes he gets angry when I don't come home, he will scream and push me into the walls he will beg me not to leave him too.

Sometimes, he will be staring at the wall and I can just curl up in my bed without him so much as moving.

It's appalling just how broken someone can be.

I find myself flinching at the sound of fists against bones, every hit rattling something so deep within me that I am struck still in absolute horror. In spite of myself, I wait for punches to come, like I am waiting for the familiar sting. This is not my punishment to bear but I wonder who would willingly place themselves in such anguish. No amount of money is worth this.

For the first time in a while I look up at the ring, one stained with blood and sweat and I wrap my arms around around my waist to protect myself from the sight. None of the guys in it are particularly small but one is significantly shorter than the other. The one getting his ass kicked, as a matter of fact. The crowd is rowdy, cheering on suffering as though the poor kid couldn't feel the knees to his skin. As though his pain were as real as the tooth fairy.

I feel sorry for him. I don't believe in karma, in just desserts. No matter if he entered that ring willingly, it does not excuse the pain he feels. Does not make that pain entertaining. As much as I hate my father, I would not wish my pain upon him. I would not force him through the same thing. All I want is to move on and to forget any of this ever happened.

Seconds have passed before I cannot bear to watch any longer, scuffing the floor with the heels of my shoes and wondering if it's worth it to make a break for it. Surely I could find my way back home through the maze of streets and back alleys that Stephani had led me through. It's only a labyrinth after all.

In other words, I'm staying right here.

Why did I agree to come here? I'm bad at saying no. There's a kind of guilt that builds up in my chest and it eats away at me, the fear of disappointing someone, of having them dislike me burns. I'd like to say I don't care what others think but that would be a lie.

I like the attention I get at school. Sometimes, I don't feel so disgusting. So used up and unattractive if others are braiding my hair during break and laughing with me to pass the time. They aren't friends. I wouldn't really call anybody my friend. There's not one person I trust enough to open up to, not one person I think would even give a shit about the nightmares I am forced to face at home. I'm a pretty face and nothing mo-

"Hey there, cutie." The words are startlingly close, sending my heart up into my throat and my hair into my eyes as I search for a source. They couldn't have been directed toward me, right? There was some conversation happening mere feet away from me and I was going to feel a fool for even assuming someone was talking to me. Little Fawn Abbott who belongs anywhere but right here. Little Fawn Abbott who no one would notice amongst this chaos. Please god, let no one notice him.

It's the guy from the fight, the one who lost. I look behind me to see if there is anyone else he could possibly be addressing. There isn't. I supposed I'm glad it's the less threatening of the two contestants. There is something almost friendly about him, a cool sort of air that helps put a racing heart at ease.

I tuck mussed hair behind my ears, shaking it out moments later and repeating the process a few times, quite honestly at a loss for words.

When I speak, it is almost a whisper. "Sorry uhm... do you mean me because... uh... maybe you got hit a little too hard back there if you're calling me cute." And I give him the warmest smile I can manage because I just don't want to be alone here anymore.

IT'S JUST THE SUN IN YOUR EYES

[Python]

astaroth.

Astaroth wasn't much of a thinker. Impulse was his policy and it landed him in heaps of trouble, especially among his fellow fighters. He was notorious for his loud mouth and steel balls – not literally, of course. They didn’t call him brave, but stupid. He didn’t have a filter in his brain, and apparently spewed “bullshit” wherever he walked. He didn’t think that was true; some of his lines were smooth, clever, and endearing. In this case, maybe not. He thought it unoriginal and corny but he was also half-naked, gleaming with sweat, and had at least one bruise somewhere in his cheek. He could feel it aching.

Despite his feigned confidence and careless lack of line rehearsal, there were people who could tolerate him with a smile. He could count them on one hand but he appreciated each and every one of them for putting up with his shit. He only wished they could take it one step further and nod their heads with a smile whenever he made a pass at them or asked them out for a date. Why was it so difficult to find that shining star? Just one, that was all he asked. One person who wouldn’t despise him the next day, and one he didn’t have to pay for.

I might be too desperate, he thought. He had pondered that plenty of times in the past. After his fights, his eyes always roamed about the room in search of the faces that would frown in sympathy at his approach. He always hoped for pity sex, but steered them away with his attitude. He was too peppy, too cheerful after a beat down, but that was how he coped. Life was shit and he had to stay positive or his sanity would collapse beneath the weight. There was no winning.

He fully expected the stranger to either scowl at him, shuffle away uncomfortably, ignore him, or in the worst case scenario, slap him. What he didn’t expect was the distinct display of modesty, written all over his body language and voice. It was simultaneously adorable and concerning. There was no way he had never been called cute before; he was like an angel sent from the heavens to keep his heart happy and hopeful for the night. He had his own self-esteem issues to worry about, but him? How could he?

He chuckled at the response and leaned his shoulder against the nearest wall. ”Trust me, I’ve been hit a lot harder than that,” he boasted, although he wasn’t sure if there was much to boast about unless he counted his pain tolerance. That was impressive.

”I know when I’m seeing things, and right now I’m not. You’re actually cute. Swear on my life.”

If only he knew how worthless that was.

On the bright side, the boy seemed friendly enough. His smile could melt butter and he had yet to judge him for the embarrassing loss he suffered not five minutes ago. His losses were infinite and expected, but some people couldn’t resist mocking him anyway. Any moment now he expected one of the usuals to notice him and slap him on the back, sporting a condescending smile. Everything they said was completely unoriginal, like ”Nice job breaking a leg out there, literally!” And that was stupid because he had never broken a leg before, just a few ribs here and there. It wasn’t a damn career center, although with the skill levels he often faced, it sometimes felt like one.

”Oh and before you ask, my name is Astaroth. Asta for short.” He grinned.

table by ugky

[[nyte]]

I KNOW YOU WANNA GO TO HEAVEN

FAWN

BUT YOU'RE HUMAN TONIGHT

IF THERE'S A LIGHT AT THE END

I don't get out much. Not because I'm not allowed, not because my father locks me away like I am some slave only for him to use. They scare me. People. They're too loud, too reckless. Their voices are shrill and an octave too high, they crush my skull with their fake smiles and their bright eyes. I've only ever met with those I call 'friends' outside of the classroom a few times, all of which have ended like so. With me cold, alone and scared. People just aren't dependable. I'd prefer to sit out on the beach by myself without the company of another. In the end I think I'd rather be alone.

They'd surely only end up hurting me anyway.

There are spiders creeping up the back of my neck, anxiety like fangs upon my forearms. A hooligan my dad would call this kind of guy. Tall, mysterious, half naked and able to walk after thoroughly getting the shit beat out of him. Up to no good and looking for someone to use. Was he all of those things? Who am I to judge? He's nice and right now that's what I need. If he's not going to pin me against a wall by my throat and demand I comply I've got no reason to complain. It puts him one step above all the other men in my life, as of right now.

Astaroth, he says his name is. It's pretty, long and elegant and it reminds me of storm clouds for no reason in particular. Long billowing plumes of the heaven's smoke thousands of feet above the earth. Rumbling and growling with hidden rage, weeping softly onto the cement and bathing us in the scents of damp grass and flooded asphalt. It's a nice name.

He acts as if he knew I was going to ask and I suppose it's a safe assumption talking to any normal person. But not to a broken, useless thing like me. In all honesty I probably would have forgotten something that seems so insignificant among the stench of bodies and blood. It's so easy to lose manners in this underground land where none of them seem to exist. There's a bright red button forming upon his cheek and I am so tempted to run my fingers along the wound that they twitch in protest as I curl them into my palm. I wish that I could take away his pain. I hate to see suffering, even that of a stranger.

I guess that is why I am always avoiding mirrors.

He insists that I am something cute, perhaps precious and I'm so tempted to hiss that he is wrong. That he knows nothing about my worth. That my innocence was long since broken by a father who locked me in his room on my seventh birthday and called me by my mother's name. But I can't get mad at him. It's not his fault. I have only myself to blame.

Anxiously I push my hair back, freeing eyes from its almost constant presence and desperately trying to form some kind of coherent sentence. His eyes are dark, far too intense and the moment I meet them my gaze simply fall to the floor without a second thought. Perhaps he lost to that man but I'm sure he'd have no problem beating me into something unrecognizable if he so wished. (And oh, I cannot stand the pain.) But he seems to like me so maybe pain is the least of my worries. Perhaps he wishes to use me for something else, I can't be sure. His smile is bright but his eyes are dark. Scary.

I'm not a people person.

"Fawn." I finally manage, sheepish smile painting my lips bright red. "My name is Fawn and it's very nice to meet you Astaroth." And I hope he cannot hear my voice and the way that it shakes. Weakness is the last thing I wish to broadcast to a world like this. "I'm... sorry about... you getting hit harder than uh that guy was hitting you 'cause I don't much like getting hit in the first place I can't imagine-"

Get to the fucking point, Fawn Abbott.

"Ah, sorry."

IT'S JUST THE SUN IN YOUR EYES

[Python]

astaroth.

He bit his tongue. Fawn was the cutest name destined for the cutest face in the room, but he couldn’t spew compliments left and right like a broken sprinkler; there had to be a method to the madness, otherwise he would seem overbearing and desperate. Truthfully, he was an unbalanced combination of both, but he would rather keep that aspect of himself hidden. Nobody needed to know how high his flaws towered above the few redeeming traits he cherished (like his sense of humor). He wore a façade of confidence everywhere he went, and it was convincing. He was at the ass end of everybody’s jokes and he could feign a light-hearted demeanor, always pretending it didn’t bother him. If he acted otherwise, they would all know how weak he was. There was no digging himself out of that humiliating abyss.

To an angel like this, he couldn’t stumble over his words and gush like the shores of his favorite cove. After another devastating loss he was in no mood for another fuck up. Even if rejection lingered around the corner, the least he could do was try to make a friend. He didn’t have many of those – at least not the ones he could trust with his heart in their hand. Nobody like that had ever existed.

Things were lonely when it was just him and his father’s drunken rages. No amount of pain could erase the hollow sensation in his chest. No amount of sex could accomplish that either, but it was distraction he always craved. People were a distraction and he wanted their attention; not the fists and the snide comments, but affection. Somebody to walk with him on chilly nights and speak to him with a feather soft voice, because everybody here was made of iron and heat. He needed a break from the chaos.

There was something delicate about the way Fawn spoke to him, the stumbling of his tongue and the hesitation in his tone. He grinned at how pure it was. ”I do this every week, I’m used to it,” he said, trying to reassure him. There was a lot he couldn’t say about how badly and often he was bruised and why, but there really was an adjustment factor. Pain couldn’t be ignored or erased but it could be dampened. Chugging alcohol usually helped, but he was not about to stray down that path and end up dead in an alley. He was an idiot, but he was also careful and street smart. He would never poison his blood that badly. Not like that asshole of a drunk he called dad

”So uh,” He crossed his arms and relaxed his shoulders, doing his best to look unfazed by his the swelling ridge on his cheek and the persistent uproar of bodies around them. It was loud and obnoxious and Astaroth wanted to hear his new companion properly. ”Wanna go somewhere?”

He realized instantly how suspicious it sounded. Creeping usually wasn’t his approach; he would flirt and nudge, but there was a difference between being forward and being creepy. He just wanted to escape the outbreaks of excitement before their voices drowned in it. ”Like, outside. It’s really loud in here!” He raised his voice as they chimed the bell for the next fight to commence. Astaroth didn’t care who it was. He had a suitable new distraction named Fawn, and if he hadn’t ruined his chance already, he wanted to know him better. There could be hope somewhere in this shithole of a place.

table by ugky

[[nyte]]

I KNOW YOU WANNA GO TO HEAVEN

FAWN

BUT YOU'RE HUMAN TONIGHT

IF THERE'S A LIGHT AT THE END

To leave this hell whole would be a blessing. The smells and the sounds creep into the corners of my eyes, forcing themselves upon me and I can hardly breathe with their fingers so far down my throat. I think I'm going to be sick. I know I'm going to be sick if I stay here much longer, I'll dirty this boy's shoes and it already seems like he's having a bad enough night- I don't want to give anyone else a reason to hate me.

His voice is like satin, layers upon layers of smooth fabric piling themselves atop one another. It'd be almost enchanting had I not been conditioned to fear anything that so much as throws a smile my way. Kindness, in my experience, is a ruse. A means to an end. The only reason anyone would dare be nice to a pathetic thing like me is to gain my trust and then to break it like the bones in my wrist. The frail, forgotten kind that can be shattered by even the slightest pressure.

I'm not made to survive this world. I'm not made to be anything but a pretty face for whoever wants to use me next. I guess the sooner I accept it, the sooner the pain will end. The throbbing bruises that make their way up my stomach, the finger marks around my hips. They will all fade into nothing and then I will be more than a puppet to whoever wishes to pull my strings. The ones so carefully sewn into my flesh. If only I knew put them there. If only I could beg them to take it all away.

"Yeah, getting out of here would be fantastic." I give Astaroth a smile, one that stretches the corners of my lips and splits my skin wide open. "Honestly? I hate violence. I hate it so much. I don't know why I'm here." Because a girl invited me. Because I didn't want to be home alone again. Because maybe a change of pace would be welcome when everything is always the fucking same. When there has never been even a glimmer of hope that my happy ending is waiting just around he corner as my dreams so often promise.

No fairy tale has ever been made up of so many chapters.

I lace my fingers within this stranger's, filling the gaps in my skin with his and it is warm and soft and I would quite like it to stay like this but I know that nothing ever does so I pull him through the crowd and I run away. Like the coward I am. Avoiding home, avoiding him. Avoiding the truth and the pain. Avoiding the mound of dirt in our backyard that I have never been allowed near.

I am good at this. At running until I am made of nothing but iron and stardust.

And I only stop when the wind is there to draw soft palms across my cheeks. Harsh. Cold. And I only stop when I once again feel alive. "I hate crowds." I mutter and I tear myself away because the touch of another grows poisonous after too long. "You know?"

And I hope he does because I don't. Not anymore.

IT'S JUST THE SUN IN YOUR EYES

[Python]

astaroth.

It was hard to find peace in hell. There were sweat stains instead of fire, but pain burned across his body from where bone connected to skin like a hammer. The grunts of men swinging their limbs for victory threatened to drown the mousy voice of precious Fawn, who stood in the midst of barbarians like a lost doe. He accepted the idea of escaping this chaos, once again drawing Astaroth’s attention with another smile. He mirrored the expression because he couldn’t help it; he was a sucker for cuties, and despite his participation in such a savage fight club he was as friendly as spring sunlight. He wasn’t the type to lure an innocent boy out into the night for his own selfish desires. He simply sought company.

Violence infested most aspects of his life. It lurked around every lit corner in his house. There was no telling when his fuse of a father would ignite. Tonight for certain, if he dared show his face in that home to once again disappoint him as a fighter. They weren’t even blood relatives, so what did he care? Yet it was Astaroth’s unshared blood that ended up decorating the tiled floors, and it was he who had to wipe it up the next morning after stuffing his nose with tissues. He had grown to hate the taste of coppery blood, but he had to adjust.

He couldn’t see how Fawn fit into any of this. If he hated violence so much, how had he ended up in this shithole? His pupils weren’t dilated, so he hadn’t been drugged and led here by some creepy asshole. It was odd, how a lot of the members and spectators ended up in a place like this. It was small, crowded, and suffocating, yet it attracted the eyes of so many. If Fawn had ended up tangled here, there was no predicting who could appear next. Astaroth liked that idea of mystery. Spontaneity was something he craved outside of a home that reeked of alcohol and anger.

”Not your cup of tea, eh?” he added, lips still stretched from ear to ear. Catching Fawn’s hand in his own, he welcomed the soft and unexpected gesture, then weaved through the shouting crowds. They were riled up again, bellowing at the spectacle in the ring. Astaroth didn’t plan to stay and see the victor. He was tired of giving a shit about them.

It was Friday, and the sun had vanished hours ago. Crisp, cold air soothed his flushed cheeks. There was a chill against his naked torso, reminding him that he had regrettably forgotten to don a shirt. He hadn’t planned to walk around tastelessly half-naked with this new companion, but he didn’t feel like ditching the guy just for an article of clothing. Besides, if he didn’t mind then Astaroth didn’t mind. Fuck the cold. It couldn’t keep him away from what he wanted, and what he wanted was simple.

”Yeah,” he said, wishing their hands could stay glued. The feeling of another person – soft instead of harsh and painful – was something he missed. He ran his fingers through his hair and smiled to hide every broken piece of himself.

”So, where to? Food? Drinks? You name it.”

The district was theirs.

table by ugky

[[nyte]]

I KNOW YOU WANNA GO TO HEAVEN

FAWN

BUT YOU'RE HUMAN TONIGHT

IF THERE'S A LIGHT AT THE END

People have an awful habit of underestimating me. Regarding me with doe eyes and ignorant sympathy. Looking at me with emotion as useless as their words. (I'm sorry you've been through so much.) Apologies do nothing. Feeling sorry for me does even less. Yes, I am weak. I cry when overwhelmed and am too small to fight off much of anyone, let alone my father. But I am more than capable of stomaching everything life has thrown my way. Damsels in distress are nothing but fools waiting for a prince that was long since swallowed by their fire breathing dragons.

Pity will not heal these wounds, the ones sewn to my flesh and those hidden underneath. Each and every one is a reminder of just how fucking shitty my life is and they are a reminder that just maybe I have what it takes to make it through this. I am not strong but I am a survivor and that damn well should be enough.

The stranger - Astaroth - he must be cold. A fog has descended upon us, staining the earth with ghosts' tears. His shirt must have been lost in that murky underground, torn like the fresh marks upon his body and I cannot help but notice that more than one has yellowed with age. He's a fighter, he must be used to this pain but somehow it doesn't ease the anxiety which has settled somewhere in the back of my throat. "Here." I can't bring myself to meet his eyes, they are far too intense. Too many mysteries are wrapped within them that I do not wish to disturb.

I pull at the hem of my oversized sweater, tugging it over my head and exposing the collared shirt hidden beneath. I'd rather not give him a choice in the matter, the deed is done and he should just take it. Pleasantries are not worth my time, meaningless thank yous or insistence that you cannot accept. Silence is my best friend and the only one I have ever needed. He keeps a strong hand upon my shoulder, gluing my lips together whenever anyone dare ask are you okay?

I'm not. Nobody knows that. I'm a ditzy, cute little thing as far as anyone is concerned.

"It's big on me so it should fit you just fine." I fix the shirt that had taken to riding up my abdomen, revealing skin that I would rather have kept hidden. "Probably not your style but tough shit 'cause I don't think walking around with a shirtless giant is gonna get us any worthwhile service."

Time will never heal my wounds, the nightmares that haunt my every waking moment. There is no recovering from every cold sweat which is to thank for every rude awakening, for every shiver down my spine and tooth sunk into flesh to keep from screaming. Silence is key when living with a man so volatile that he can't even recognize his own son. A man so evil that if he does, he doesn't care. But every laugh, every smile shared with some stranger some day of some year, maybe that's the key.

He's my father. He's been there since I can remember and I can't find it in me to hate him. No matter how awful a man, he's the only constant in a world which never ceases to change. That's why I stay. "We should go out to eat- by the way." I'm not hungry.

IT'S JUST THE SUN IN YOUR EYES

[Python]

astaroth.

Streams of silver mist sprinkled his cheeks. It was the haunting type of fog that turned a peaceful walk home into a treacherous journey. Alleys and shadows never scared him off of the streets, but mystical fog like this (ha, mistical) could hide even the most amateur criminal. He didn’t want what little money he had to be swiped by a mugger. He could endure fists to the jaw, knees to the groin, and feet in his spine, but he didn’t want to experience the sensation of a cold, steely knife pressed against his throat. His “father” would call him a coward for fearing such a small chance, and demand that he fight for his pride if it happened. He was also pretty sure his father wanted him dead.

Luckily, he had company tonight. A Fawn with angel’s wings and pretty eyes that sheltered a thousand mysteries. The only mystery he had uncovered thus far was what lie beneath his oversized sweater as he pulled it over his head and offered it to Astaroth. He hoped the sweep of his eyes over the boy’s petite body wasn’t obvious – he had wondered if the shape matched the small curve of his jaws, and it did. ”Thanks,” he said, pulling the garment over his shivering torso. Fawn was right; it hugged him perfectly, and although it didn’t match his black wrestling shorts it would be enough to keep heads from turning in their direction.

As he smoothed out the wrinkles, he laughed his light-hearted laugh. He always sounded as jolly as a child on Ratmas, but the truth was he ached from head to toe and teetered on the edge of humiliation. He barely knew this kid but already craved every aspect of his approval, and that was a dangerous path to pave. It always crumbled to pieces, leaving him feeling as rejected as the night his father first told him that he didn’t want him anymore.

”Tough shit.”

His eyes lit up to match his goofy grin. Fawn had quite the mouth on him – a little spice to liven up the evening. Asta didn’t have much of a style to begin with, so the sweater was a luxury. He very much wanted access to a restaurant where he could wine, dine, and hopefully impress the shit out of Fawn. At the very least, they would walk out with full bellies and warm hands. He didn’t expect much beyond that, honestly. A heart bursting with hope was destined to fail, and Asta didn’t plan on dying young.

”Eating sounds good,” he said, gesturing Fawn to follow him as he started along the sidewalk. Mist continued to decorate their path, and he wondered if it would be too daring a move to hold his hand. He had a knack for making horrible first impressions and startling people away, so he decided against it. ”What do you have in mind? Pasta? Sandwiches? Name your favorite.”

I promise I’m as desperate as I sound.

table by ugky

[[nyte]]

I KNOW YOU WANNA GO TO HEAVEN

FAWN

BUT YOU'RE HUMAN TONIGHT

IF THERE'S A LIGHT AT THE END

It's a pleasant kind of change. Stumbling through mist-ridden streets next to a complete stranger who knew little more than my name. My secrets were stashed neatly beneath the long sleeves of my sweater and I can only hope that the deep navy imprints of fingers upon my shoulder had faded into nothing more than a hint of painful color. There are rarely bruises left where much of anyone can see but without my sweater I am left feeling both at peace and uncomfortably exposed.

He's nice. I'm normally not so quick to cast judgement, especially in a word where clown's smiles are painted upon every cheek but, I can tell. Perhaps I haven't much to compare him to- I've spent most of my life avoiding men for fear they'd turn out to be just like my father. By no means do I trust Astaroth - that's something I have yet to give to anyone - but I like his company a hell of a lot more than every 'friend' I've made in seventeen years. Plus. his smile is so fucking stupid I can't help but love it.

"Somewhere small." I shrug, eyes stuck to the pavement in some desperate attempt to protect myself from everything and nothing at all. "I'm not as big a fan of people as they are me." A nervous smile paints lips turned bright pink in dusk. It's easy to push people away with harsh words and dark gazes, to avoid any real connection for fear of it being taken advantage of. Even speaking requires courage, deep breaths in and out to stop anxiety from turning me to a fool in front of a boy I barely know.

I find my hands in my hair as we walk, braiding it over my shoulder just to have something to do. He's so much taller than me it's frightening and as hard as I try to stop the shaking of my body I can barely wrap a black band around the end of the braid before hiding within the pockets of tight pants. "I don't really get out much, I'm sure you know the area better than me."

He's handsome and I'm sure he knows it. Astaroth has a kind of confidence that is either completely fake or painfully real. Either option is a sad one, but for different reasons. Masks are what I do best, sewing shattered porcelain back together with sinew strings is all I've been able to do since my mother left and I realized she wasn't going to take me with her. I think I do a damn good job at seeing through them too. "You have a fucking ridiculous smile, by the way."

It's not until after I've said it that I realize just how awful that sounds. Blood rushes too my cheeks and my tongue becomes about a thousand times heavier as I struggle to sort out an explanation. "Not in a ridiculous, ridiculous way uh I mean-" I lick my lips and place a hand on the back of my neck, eyes searching the sky for words I cannot find. "Ridiculous, infectious, brighten a whole room kind of smile. It's good."

I sigh, rubbing exasperatedly at cheeks turned bright red. "It's really good."

IT'S JUST THE SUN IN YOUR EYES