ends of ember | {wade/luke}

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

Whisper, say my name
The lights are gettin' lower
Trouble, from your lips
One taste, I'm goin' over

They allowed him a single picture of the family who did not want him. No note, no reason why they ever left him, though that question had answered itself when he was old enough.

He had two brothers, a mother, a father. Clearly, they were not from wealth, but it was not portrayed as such in the photograph. His mother was gaunt and fair, raven-haired, blue-eyed. But she could have been completely unrelated to the boys in the picture, who all looked like different clones of their father. The oldest was around nine or so when the picture was taken, had his father's proud chin hoisted up in the air. There was a sense of confidence that shouldn't have been noticeable at that young of an age clearly present on the boy's face.

The other had his father's dark curls and slender frame, though he couldn't have been more than three or four, so who knew if that carried into his adulthood.

And then Wade was left with everything else, including molten eyes and a smile that made the knees weak. He coughed, ribs aching as he tucked the picture back inside of his fact-log. He always dug it out hoping to feel... something. Something positive, like confidence, or understanding. But they looked so content in their lives, so happy to have a new child and toss him away as if he never existed.

Usually, the only emotion he was left feeling was something close to nostalgia, which was a pity, since he was missing something he had not ever really had in the first place.

Knock on the door, his eyes darted to the clock hanging above his desk. 1:02 in the morning; well past curfew, yet a sly grin crept along the length of his lips.

He knew what this was, who stood on the other side of the door, and what his plans were.

Opening the door carefully, so as not to make any noise, he smiled at his best friend as the other boy stepped inside.

"Did you forget your key again?" Wade whispering, clicking the door shut behind him. It was not ideal to knock when the walls of their apartments were as paper thin as they happened to be, but Wade suspected his neighbors were either heavy sleepers, or had grown used to Luke's sneaking in after hours.

Wade stretched, his arms over his head, back arched. Luke was lucky Wade had not fallen asleep already.

"Cafeteria, then?" He offered, "Shipment came in yesterday, so Chef probably has some boxes of cookies stashed away." A plump man, the institute chef was, and rather stingy. He took great enjoyment in the fact that the children were not often allowed the luxury of sweets, and made it a point to eat the junk food in front of them over the years.

When they got old enough and brave enough to start snooping through his things, he had started hiding boxes of cookies and snack cakes in the cabinet above one of the freezers so that no one could reach them without a step stool, or in Wade and Luke's case, a good friend's shoulders and a can-do attitude.

"Let's go, already. I'm starving."

The hollowness inside him disagreed. He was not hungry very often at all anymore, but he made it a point to eat when around Luke or the others, just to keep questions of his health out of their mouths for as long as possible.

He stopped at his desk, snatching his room key off of its wooden surface, then turned and ruffled Luke's hair.

"Oh, and next time, bring your damn key!"

Falling, between
This feel, is what I'm after
Empty, need the high
Fix me, I'm feelin' sober

song: high

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

L u k e.

You trace back last night’s footsteps on cobblestones; it’s become a routine – one you are thoroughly delighted by. The institution’s veiled in a counterfeit serenity after almost every sunset. Exhausted students retreat back to their quarters and what’s left is a hushed compound and the orchestra of a nearby ocean in the saline air.

You always envisioned your life as a breaking tide, stuck in a constant fluctuation.

A father you’ve seen only in hazed imaginings, plus a mother who gave you away – this body of yours is a reservoir of abandonment issues. Unlike Roan who takes pen to paper, you’re accustomed to sketching images in this skull. The idea of a wholesome family is as impossible as it sounds for you but it doesn’t stop the wild expectations – doesn’t stop hope from hoping.

Father would have a heap of dirty-blond threads and a throaty laugh, the honeyed kind that resonates. He’d have taken you on little trips around the district – stone-skipping across water, fishing – and you’d never have to stage another grin, ever again. And, mother a dreamer, always weaving anecdotes and tales, singing ideas about plays that you’d soon take references from and write. Maybe, a sister could be tossed into the mix – some brown-eyed girl who you’d teach abcs, counting digits, etc. A bird with scorched wings like you turn to dreams and hand-rolled cigarettes as a form of escape.

Whiskers make a squeal because these reveries have you almost going the wrong way. “Aw – you remember the way to Wade-y.” A whisper, then a soft pat to the mouse’s head. He was at the usual rendezvous point; you hope Wade’ll appreciate the rodent company.

Turns and hallways and your knuckles are kissing his door. When it opens, you already know what he’s to say – plus the same old’ excuse. “For your information, I was in a hurry.” Beneath moonshine, Wade’s countenance glows silvery but there’re clues of fatigue – scattered here and there upon it. “As absurd as this question sounds – have you been losing sleep lately? You're looking pale, mate.” You ask, concern buried within the syllables, but are fast to discard the topic when he mentions the cafeteria. “Yes. I’m a sta-r-ving too.” –and Wade repeats your words.

The ruffle to your hair has you pouting at him and desperately trying to achieve the style back, even though it makes your heart flutter whenever he does it – such a soft pair of hands.

“You should make me another extra set of keys – maybe then, I won’t forget ‘em.” But, you know it’s more likely for you to forget with a new one because you’ll become even clumsier.

A soft click indicates that the door’s been locked. Whiskers dig out of your pocket, greeting Wade with an enthusiastic squeak. “He knows you more than me,” One fake scoff escapes into the air amid you two as you hand the mouse over to him. “This is what betrayal feels like.” There’s a tenderness you dear in the way he receives Whiskers.

Stars reel as the both of you try to be as noiseless as you can but trivial things – such as Whiskers’ fur tickling Wade’s palm is potent enough to make you snicker.

The kitchen’s been packed up for the night, plates cleaned and cooking knives embedded inside their wooden sheaths. Ladles dangled evenly from a long nail hammered into the wall. It doesn’t take long for you to spot the cookie boxes. “Pst, you’re topping me today,” Double entendre, one that brings color to your cheeks – thank god for the sheer darkness. “’topping’ as in, ya’ know, you’re getting on my shoulders. You know what I mean!”

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

Whisper, say my name
The lights are gettin' lower
Trouble, from your lips
One taste, I'm goin' over

"He knows you more than me," Luke said, referring to a certain rodent that peeked out of his pocket, "This is what betrayal feels like." Wade grinned, digging a hand into his friend's pocket and pulling Whiskers the mouse free. He pet the top of his little head with one finger. The little guy seemed to like it, sniffed his finger for a moment before letting him continue.

Even rats deserve a little compassion and understanding.

"Of course he does. I'm cool as hell, Luke." He handed Whiskers back over to his rightful owner, glad to have evaded Luke's question about his sleeping habits.

("As absurd as this question sounds – have you been losing sleep lately? You're looking pale, mate.")

On the contrary, he thought. It had become so easy for his eyelids to become too heavy, too common for him to nod off in class.

His energy levels seemed to plummet more and more as time went on. There was a time when sneaking around with Luke was the thing he looked forward to all week long. But now, as his best friend had pointed out, he was visibly fatigued.

He closed the door behind him, clicking the lock closed and making a point of dangling the key in Luke's direction before tucking it back into his pocket.

They'd become good at this: being them, Luke and Wade. To anyone else, they were always the overlooked, the overflow crowd in the back of the room. But when Wade asked Luke if he could borrow his glue-stick in the first grade, a friendship that never died was born. He was grateful for Luke in ways he couldn't explain, and in ways he wasn't interested in trying to explain.

"Pst, you’re topping me today," his voice broke the silence and Wade's first instinct was to roll his eyes, stifle a chuckle. "As in, ya’ know, you’re getting on my shoulders. You know what I mean!"

"You're so dumb," Wade whispered back, tiptoeing down a flight of stairs.

Wade knew there were some conversations the two of them needed to have sometime soon: the way Luke watched him sometimes like when he held Whiskers, the sickness— and the only reason he hadn't started any of them is because he knew they were all his burdens. Wade kissed Luke. It was Wade who fell ill. He kept dropping the ball with Luke, shaking up the other boy's expectations and limitations just as he got used to the way they were before, and that was not fair.

"Probably for the best, though," Wade sassed, his fingers closing around a door handle to the next floor, "Something tells me you like it better down there on the bottom."

Mmm, and what was life without a few contradictions? As unsure of what his motives with Luke were, Wade had to admit he had a guilty pleasure in watching the boy figure them out. It was selfish of him, and he knew that. To be honest, he likely only entertained the idea because he was afraid of losing the one person he had always had.

Wasn't that such a terribly sad thing? He'd been raised with all of these people within the same walls. He had taken the same classes and learned the same things. He'd held their hands and had those awkward first kisses with a lot of them, he'd fought with them and avoided them in the hallways, and experienced every single part of his short life with them right next to him.

But Luke was the only one who ever made him feel less lonely.

He guessed it was a familiarity thing. Once cast-outs, always cast-outs.

Wade decided the best way to show appreciation to Luke without making things weird was to reach over playfully shove him in the shoulder.

"I'm just saying, if you drop me this time, I'm kicking your ass."

Falling, between
This feel, is what I'm after
Empty, need the high
Fix me, I'm feelin' sober

song: high

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

“Of course he does. I'm cool as hell, Luke.”

Your fingers receive the fur ball back, and he leaps down your sweater’s pocket, a quaint burrow that he’s used to. But, the concentration is not on Mr. Whiskers but upon those rosy brims—and the syllables which trickled past their edges.

Wade was always the calm in your fiasco, a steadfast energy you could constantly rely upon. If you were to commit a trust fall, a pair of arms would always be down below you as a safety net and they would be Wade’s.

Maybe that’s why it ignites a pang of concern, tucked deep inside your rib-cages— whenever Wade’s glassy eyes lose their fiery audacity, whenever he pokes his food around with a fork instead, whenever his skin sheds flesh, whenever he seems less of a boy and more of a cadaver.

Yeah, you’re observant;

a pair of idle eyes always trace their paths back to Wade’s, or to the sun filtering in through dusty windows, or to Juno, or to a distant horizon. But, most of the time, it’s Wade and his cheeky grins.

The darkness’s profound, and you’ve grown kindred to the unknowns beneath its veil. This’s been a tradition since forever— tiptoeing down stairs, running away from make-believe beasts, stealing cookies— it tortures your hummingbird heart to picture a day when this wouldn’t exist anymore.

No more late-nights, no more of Luke and Wade’s grandiose adventures.

So, you lean in closer, savoring the warmth before it abruptly leaves.

“You're so dumb.”

“Stop talking to yourself, Wade.”

It smells of cobwebs, limes and frosting down here. Even though the mansion is an abattoir, there’re so many comforts such as the walls, your soft duvets, the company. The desolate classrooms and dining halls have always been your home. Wade’s silhouette leads you down a labyrinth of doors and floors; you follow seamlessly.

“Probably for the best, though, something tells me you like it better down there on the bottom.” In moments like this, you either want to kiss him wild or smack his back. The latter sounds more enticing and appropriate. It is in your veins to spontaneously craft a retort. “Nah. The view’s bad down there.”

The winding hallways end at an embroidered door. “I'm just saying, if you drop me this time, I'm kicking your ass.” He shoves you in the shoulder— and you smirk at him.

“Oh, I am s o dropping you. Now, hurry up and get on top of me.”

Your fingers pat the shoulders.

[dars]