A Morbid kid

Ilya.

I look to my left.

Rookie.

<he jolts forward, their head, which is cradled in his lap still, moving forward by extent. He’d promised to watch them sleep… something about keeping an eye out for whoever may have left the curtains open- he knew, at the time it was likely more because they’d been scared.. a futile promise… shitty girlfriend. Abysmal girlfriend. He’d been braiding their hair- a way to comfort them, he’d hoped- before they made him swear it, and he had certainly tried to keep himself awake.. if he wanted to sleep, he’d have simply slipped into bed beside them. Rather, he’d drifted off with his head thrown back, only held by the wall, his hands still ensnared in the ginger-white sea held by the basin that are his thighs. This is something of an unfortunate situation, because in his vague attempts to protect himself, he yanks their hair. If they weren’t awake before, they certainly are now.>

<he breathes behind their head, like he’s having an asthma attack, shaking like a poorly-sealed window pane in high-speed winds. One hand goes up to touch his face, still covered in the few ambitious strands of their hair clinging to the spaces between his fingers. Jesus. Fuck. His hand comes back wet, and red. He assumes blood initially, and whines with such a degree of fear that one might be swayed to believe he was being held at gunpoint. It takes him a moment to realize it’s only the red of the moon slipping in fractions through the blinds, and painting his hands red. Sweat, he’s only sweating. He takes note of the hairs too, observing the color and texture, and quickly turning his head downwards to meet their eyes, once he better understands the situation.>

S- I didn’t m- I’m so- sorry.. ah… are you alright?

<his words come out with no traction, shaking and inevitably falling in on themselves before he can pile them into a proper sentence. It happens often, really. He’s much more articulate in his head, but his tongue will hardly get in line.>

—🪙 ( @carrying-coins) // stupid human Artie lock in bro and nno that wasn’t a project Hail Mary reference about watching eachother sleep for safety purposes I’d never 💕🥰

Mmmnnngg… wuh’shappenin’???

[Lasha jolted awake at the sharp sting in their head, red and white hair falling from Arties palm in a small clump. Oops.

They spoke quietly, not moving until they realized it was simply Artie being afraid, not their mysterious attacker from the days prior.

They held their head, moving Arties hat further down to cover their eyes. They could feel a headache coming on and they wanted to nip it in the bud while they still could.

Darkness always helps.

So does silence.

And sleep.

Three things they can hardly ever gain in this situation. In their dorm— Francis also dealt with chronic migraines. So they’d simply arranged quiet hours with Irina and Yana, eight pm to ten am was considered quiet hours for the sake of decompression.

It was nice. Even if the not everyone on the floor followed it, at least their room did.

They miss Francis. And Yana. And Irina. Even if Yana did always put Lasha on dishes with the chore chart, even if Irina accidentally ripped Lasha’s tights before a recital (which, to her credit, she had showed up ten minutes before they’d begun with a new pair of tights, sweaty and red faced. She’d been running, Lasha tried paying her back, she refused).

They rub the tender spot on their head, fingers threading through their braid. Huh. This feels complex, how long did it take?

They feel bad for ruining his work now.]

You okay?

[They sit up, they’ll deal with the headache, they know how to tune those out and continue on their daily life. They can tell when Artie needs them, and their discomfort is worth it to bring Artie comfort.

Their arms are warm as they lift the hat slightly, leaning up so they’re sat in his lap. The weight helps him ground himself— they think. They understand, when they were a kid they’d wrap themself up like a burrito in their weighted blanket and lay there for hours on end, drifting in and out all cozy and warm.

I’m fine- jus’ a dream ‘s all. You can go back t’ sleep, I didn’t mean t’… Are you okay?

<he feels awful for having stirred their rest. Especially by the means that he did. They’re already injured enough as is, there’s really no need to be provoking them further.>

<only a dream. He thinks dreams are stupid- purposeless and typically an interruption in sleep. He hadn’t had one he remembered, since sometime in his late teens maybe, which may explain his difficulty in soothing himself at first. If you do it more often, you become adjusted and discover methods to release the stress more quickly, right? He doesn’t know. …Maybe not.>

<he’d been walking, he remembers, though he can’t recall the purpose- only wandering in the night, through desecrated terrains, vague charred subjects posed about the landscape. A flicker of movement had caught his eye, and so, he’d gone towards it. The silhouette of pink came into view, prompting him to approach more rapidly, recognition giving way to a sense of familiarity and thereby comfort. A moth to the flame, a coyote to a snare, cattle to the slaughterhouse. He’d called their name various times, but this failed to illicit a reaction. Once close enough, he brushed his fingers along the fur of their coats, only hardly skimming the texture, before they whipped back with a sudden flurry of movement, and pinned him to the floor. He faintly recalls saying something to them- he doesn’t quite know what- before their face peeled back into various flaps, in the shape of a flower, interiors all lined with needle-sharp teeth. The segments grew exponentially more complex, spilling into one another and simultaneously bifurcating, slathered in a viscous red fluid- he’d assumed blood, though the liquid was far more condensed than the matter of his comparison. They offered a brief window for him to stare, before lunging down and swallowing both feet at once, dragging him down their throat bit by bit, not dissimilar to the way a snake may take its prey. It took him until they were down to his hips, before he realized what was happening, and with a cry, he began to flail desperately, a futile gamble at escape. It took only a matter of seconds, for them to consume him entirely, whereupon he curled, silent and cramped in their stomach. He lay there, dampened by the moisture clinging to the inner lining of the cavity, suppressed into a claustrophobic cavern he could not escape.>

<he thinks he must’ve stayed there for weeks, maybe months. It felt like forever. And suddenly, to end his purgatory, a gunshot, singular and precise, surely the only sound he’d heard in all his life. The sound was accompanied only by a sliver of light penetrating his enclosure, which with a frantic determination, he forced himself out of. He fell firmly to the floor, naked and blood-covered, though none was his own, but rather his captor’s. He heard some vague whispering, and perhaps some laughter that hardly fit the situation, though he paid it little mind. Pink fell at his side, writhing furiously, and he attempted vainly to push their innards back in towards the newly-formed incision along their abdomen. At his touch, they were set aflame, and they shrieked something to him, which he failed to understand, though the message was clear enough; this is your fault. He blinked once, and by the time he’d reopened his eyes they were little but a collection of charred flesh, not in the shape, nor statute of what they were before, but folds of skin, black and crumbling. The laughter hit a crest in amplitude, fortissimoed as he searched for the source.>

I don’t buy that for two seconds given the chunk you just ripped out of my scalp.. hehe.

[They chuckled slightly, their body was lighter. They haven’t been eating right lately. Some days it’s three full meals, some days they can only ever keep water down. If it isn’t the pain from their leg making them nauseous, it’s the pain killers. They can either be in pain and nauseous but smart, or not in pain and nauseous but dumb.

Especially with their arm, constantly weeping pus into bandages, staining it yellow until Temujin or Ilya come to help with the disinfecting. Lasha speaks of bacteria during these moments, creating a distraction so they could try to forget about the stinging of alcohol killing germs. Infection is deadly, the skin is hot to the touch, their immune system heats their body to fight the invaders trying to conquer the vast biosphere they are host to.

They dared to follow Artie into the darkness though, his heart an ark to light their way. Breathing deeply until his own breathing leveled out. Pressing his head to their chest, the warmth from their body steady, their heart thrumming evenly.

They rested their head atop the crown of his, letting their eyes squeeze shut to try to fight off the headache they could feel forming behind their eyes, a pressure that fizzed and popped with every sensory input, like Rice Krispies.

They pet the back of his head, not the best with emotional comfort nowadays, physical comfort they could provide, warm arms to hide in, soft skin to press into, steady hands to grasp.

They liked the kind of comfort Artie sought, the kind where the two could simply exist in each other’s presence without removing any clothing, diving under blankets to hide away from the sunlight and bask in each others body heat.

They liked Artie. He was safe. He was good.]

I won’t force you to talk about it.. but if you need me or want someone to listen then.. I’m here. Y’know that, right?

[It’s hard to open up for Lasha— their past? It’s easy, they can detach themself from their own life experiences and simply tell it in that cold, clinical tone they take on when they’re creating a distance between their mind and their life. Simply tell it as it is.

But pressing into the emotions of it all is where things get trickier. Lasha doesn’t handle emotions well. It’s better for them to ignore their daily emotions, even if it makes their head hurt and their stomach twist in knots.

The comfort of another’s emotions is uncomfortable for them. But they can put away their own discomfort for Arties sake. He’s a good person, he’s a kind person.

I know. I knoww, I know. <the words escape him as some piteous whimper. It might almost be better if he didn’t know. If they were meaner to him, maybe he wouldn’t be so adamant to bother them.>

<he debates, about whether or not to tell them- not because he’s really got any yield towards pouring his innards out to anybody who will help him put them back in place, but because Pink was there, in his dream. He’d still yet to tell Lasha the true reason for the loss of his leg, avoidant, for fear that they’d go after them with pitchforks and torches… he swallows thickly, eyes screwed up shut for a moment, before returning to the vastness of the surrounding room.>

<almost as quickly, he shuts them again, terrified of the openness, of the possibility that something come in through the window or the door, that Lasha may leave, or some other terrible event may occur. Too big, too silent, too familiar, too much, with medical tools scattered about, shades of tainted white stuck to the walls, and moonlight slipping through the cracks. He hates it here. He hates the infirmary. He’d come to give them the comfort and attention he was so hungry for, when he was stuck here, only the roles had been reversed. He feels beyond stupid and pathetic, to be scared of a dream, when they’re struggling objectively more. He doesn’t understand their kindness. He never really has, and he’s not sure he ever really will.>

[Lasha listened, nodding, tapping their fingers against their cane like a drum while they thought. Does he want them to speak to him as a lover? Or as a scientist?

Lasha opts for the latter. They find comfort in facts, they hope Artie does too.]

Dreams are primarily the subconscious trying to prepare you for the possibility of a scenario, but that doesn’t make the scenario a guarantee.. I don’t really know how to comfort you.

[They look down at his pitiful face, clicking their tongue against their teeth. They want to save him from drowning while they’re being sent to the gallows.

In an emergency, you need to put your own oxygen mask on before you help another person. But that metaphors so overused.. it’s so easy to ignore, just like how the safety instructions on airplanes are ignored.

They look around, checking the curtains, the suns setting. They’d be awake in an hour or so anyways. At least nobody opened the curtains, whoever tried to kill them either didn’t strike tonight, or Artie simply being there was enough to deter them.

Or it was a complete mistake, but Lasha wholly believes someone is attempting to get rid of them. They just wish they knew who, so they’d know who to point the gun at and force out of the house.]

Here— uh. Don’t tell Ilya.

[They pass an orange to Artie, fruit is scarce, Lasha has a mysterious source they go to for the resource. A whole orange, the economy is in free fall, global trade halted, an orange that is so full of juice it’s practically bursting, you could sink your teeth into it like an animal and transcend humanity.

Lasha doesn’t like to talk about what they do to gain these scarce resources.]

Just— is me talking in general helping? Or.. I mean, it was a dream, and a dream that far detached from reality can’t come true in any way, shape or form, even if times are weird now.. there are still rules to obey. Rules of physics, rules of reality.. but.. you already know this. I don’t know why I speak to you sometimes like you don’t know something. Habit I guess.

<he blinks at their offering, diluted in shape, as a byproduct of his crying. An orange? He reaches one hand up to touch it, discovering that his theory, was in fact correct. Where on earth might they have gotten an orange? He moves away from the warmth of their arms, to sit up, tucking himself, instead against the backmost wall, parallel to the bed. An orange, an orange, an orange…. What an odd thing. He narrows his eyes at it, getting to work on digging his fingernails beneath the acidic skin. He’s good at getting under peoples’ skin. The orange serves as a task, for his erratic mind, a distraction, something to focus on aside from his panic. Keeps him from catastrophizing. He’s good at tasks.>

<he finishes with this one quickly, discarding sections of the peel into one pile in front of himself, before splitting the fruit into two halves, one of which he offers to Lasha as a cursory “thank you”. That done, he begins separating the pith from the center, peeling it ever-so-carefully. He listens silently once they begin speaking again, though at first glance it may appear as though he were ignoring them entirely.>

Yes. <yes, their chatter does help. He becomes astonishingly inarticulate when upset. The words get stuck behind his tongue, and with the inability to communicate verbally, all his body knows to do is cry, and cry, and cry, to get the point across. He does it so often you’d wonder if he has an ounce of water left in his system. He cries when he’s excited, or angry, or scared, or really anything at all. He likes to listen to all their science-talk. It interests him greatly, to hear what they’ve got stored up in their head. He does it back, typically, as some sort of mutual-bonding transaction, a piece of useless information for a piece of useless information. He tells them more about history, though, than science.>

<finally, with the pith gone, he works at removing the fibrous membrane surrounding the sweetest part of the fruit, only eating bits off once it’s entirely raw. At the first few bites, he begins to hiccup. An entire symphony of noise, from him alone, small sniffles and sobs, interrupted by a hiccup of sudden inhale, some rhythmic cacophony.>

[Lasha shakes their head at the offered fruit. It’s his, keep it. They got it for him and him only. They paid in their body, spectral virginity. They don’t know why Artie stays either. Growing up they’d been told men like women who are quiet, shy, reserved.. pure. Virgin.

Lasha hasn’t been clean in a long time, they thought they’d marry him, so they thought it was okay to lay with him.

Look where that got them. About once a week they feel paralyzed when he touches them, jerking away like he’s burned them and shaking their head.

Or they just go quiet.

Lasha has quiet days more often now, they just sit and drink water and think, quiet. It’s best not to disturb them in these times, it’s best to let them forget where they are, slip into the safety of their mind, slip into the arms of their grandmother— who escaped a generational curse among women in their family, only for their mother to repeat the pattern.

Lasha probably will too. Maybe they’ll take too many pain killers and slip calmly, maybe they’ll put their head in the oven, maybe they’ll be like the women in wartimes, taking their lives before the men could find them.]

…every seven to ten years your cells replace themselves fully. Completely. Not at the same time, though. Skin cells for example replace themselves every week or so. And those will all replace at different times. Our bodies are constantly dying, we have newly generated cells right next to ones that are actively fading..

[Lasha trails off, they’re going quiet again, feeling themself fade as they think. It’s this look in their eyes that they gain. A subtle peace.

Let’s say.. in about seven years, when their twenty eight or so (and let’s be generous and add another year for luck), they’d be, technically “born anew”, that lingering feeling would no longer physically be there.

The cells that experienced their violations would be eradicated.

They would’ve liked to look forward to that day.

But they don’t think they’ll get that luxury.

They don’t think they’ll ever get that luxury.

But it’s a moment of autonomy, they’re giving themself the power to decide when and if they have that moment.

<endless chatter, it drives him to insanity. Almost as though attempting to quiet the noise at the interior of his head, he brings his hands a fraction of the way over his ears, fingers curled into his hair. He hates the stickiness on his hands, the texture of his hair down his neck, the heat in his gut, he hates it all. Every sensation is far too much for his delicate nervous system.>

<he looks down to his leg, blurred between measures of tears, which only come at a upped tempo as he observes. He hadn’t really thought about the nature of his leg’s loss. Some small hope that it’d be fine, because he could simply get a prosthetic or some other form of bettered mobility. The reality is much more severe. He will never run properly, nor ride a bike, nor jump. The pain will be chronic, and more issues will continue to present themselves as he drags himself on. His ability to fully experience life, has been severed, all for the price of something as innate to most as having a leg. He hadn’t considered it really, until now. And it came as a result of his attempt to recover somebody he loves. Does that make it his fault, or theirs? Why would they do that? No, He knows why. He just can’t wrap his head around it. The same as hitting a deer with your car, entirely unintentional, and still hurtful regardless. But is it the deer’s fault for not moving out of the way, or the driver’s for not seeing it sooner?>

<They’re easing into a numbed dissociation, while he’s edging towards complete meltdown, opposites in their methods of dealing with stress. He wants to run and hit and cry, where they go stiff and blank. Instead, he lies back, curled on his side, facing them with a wet face, so tired, so upset, entirely shattered by the sheer number of realizations that he’s been made to consider, and simultaneously made better by them, surely? They were all bound to come to him at one point or another, but all at once… is that better or worse? Best to rip the bandaid off, he supposes.>

I like seeing you. It makes the physical therapy easier when we can do it together..

[The bullet wound was sticky with scabs and muscle trying to heal itself, they’d probably have a hole in their leg forever, even after the skin heals. Like a brown recluse biting into you, it was necrotic when they were shot.]

I think it’s good for morale. I probably would’ve downed my pain killers all at once a long time ago if I didn’t have you visiting me.

[An uncomfortable truth, and the reason their medication is monitored to such an extreme, the reason they can’t get more doses sooner, the reason the time of their medication dose is logged on a paper Temujin keeps with him.

He recognizes the active suicide risk that Lasha is in. They recognize it too, but they can’t stop the feeling that they’ll probably end up dying soon. Dying from anything, really, an std, an overdose, burning alive, a visitor, getting shot, or their body finally just rebelling against years of trauma.

They say they’ve accepted it, but it’s just a thing people say. Lasha is terrified of death. The finality of it all. They’re terrified of heaven, too, and hell, the concept of eternity is something impossible for them to wrap their mind around, they’d drive themself insane trying to get a grasp of the other side sooner or later.

Lasha was losing themself, they felt it in all the ways they saw others react around them. They were as lost as a lamb, wearing a wolves skin and baring its dull teeth.

Despite their calm demeanor, Lasha was terrified, a terrified creature who will never dance again. And they always tell themself it could be worse. To the point where it’s hard to tell where the phrase being a comfort ends and becoming a repressor begins.

It could be worse. Their leg could be gone.

They don’t know which they’d prefer.]

<he reaches one hand down to feel the remaining section of his leg, the mostly-healed surface, formed into one large scar. He bites back a sob, upset at feeling further alienated from his species, upset at his eternally impaired mobility, upset that he’s so sure nobody likes him, upset because he’s afraid he feels their impending doom, too, upset, upset, upset. He doesn’t want to feel upset anymore. Stupid nightmare. Sent him to a tizzy.>

I.. ssorry. <for crying so much, and waking them up, and being so loud.> Lasha, I miss my leg. An’ I’m scared. I r-I don’t like bein’ scared. Are you scared too?

<he whispers to the shape of their face, the vague outline of their head in the darkness coming. Stupid him. He wants to go back to sleep. Away from them, maybe, where he wouldn’t wake them up again. He wants to walk again. Away from the world, where he can go where he likes without others worry. He wants to talk properly, and be kinder. He really is trying his best.>

I am.

[Lasha laid their head atop of Arties, cheek pressing into locks of brown hair.

They internalize themself, it’s hard to tell how they feel on a daily basis— extremes make them cry, extremes make them external, but they’re becoming all too used to the extreme. And internalizing some more.

They’re becoming boring. And they worry that their boringness will make Artie leave them, if not that, then when he finds out about the infidelity— even if it’s for scarce resources, even if it’s for survival, that will certainly make him so disgusted with them, that he’ll leave.

And they think it’d be for the best most days, if Artie gained some self respect and left. He’s the open wound that will never heal. Sometimes they wonder why he sticks around.

They don’t say these thoughts, far too afraid of being vulnerable, or misconstrued.]

I’m afraid every day. I just don’t have the privilege to show it.

[They look down, closing their eyes as the night encases them, strange is their daily life now. They want to lie down forever.

They figure they can have their morals when their belly is full.]

I wish I could.

[They sigh.]

I like that you do. I like how you wear your emotions on your sleeve. I can read you like a book.

[They smile slightly, but it fades, they’re trying so hard to keep him from crying more, they’re terrible with tears. They’re terrible with grief. They’re just trying to survive and the sadness that overcomes them is making it impossible. Anticipating grief, and grieving those who are still alive, knowing they’ll one day be dead.

And then what?

Lasha misses camping out in their backyard, they’d sleep in a hammock that had a mosquito net, they’d do it when they fell ill, fever or flu or strep, whatever, being inside only made them feel worse. They’d sit under the patio if it rained, but they’d minimize their time inside as much as possible.

They miss their dad mostly, thinking about him brings a lump to their throat they try to swallow. They miss their dad. They miss being his little girl, sleeping in his bed after their mom killed herself because the weight of their sadness threatened to take them with her.

They think they’ll follow in their mom’s footsteps one day. It’s a generational curse. Just because there was one oddity doesn’t mean the pattern isn’t there. Maybe it skips every few generations.

They swallow thickly, and breathe calmly.]

<he’d refused to worry, or let himself be scared in months, which might’ve been okay, even good, at the time, only now it all comes crashing down on him, after a minor trigger. Now he lies, quivering beneath a blanket of darkness, freezing, an antarctic exploration gone wrong; he’d been abandoned by his crew. So he writhes in snow that cradles him so gently, but with such apparent indifference, when he’d thought the unique nature of every snowflake would make it feel so much more grand. To die slowly, in the arms of snow which is melting away in the sun, fed to the ocean, isn’t such a bad thing. His shuddering comes to a yield. Maybe he had been gripped by a sort of hypothermia, only not of the body, but of the mind. It shook him so violently, until he was weary and broken, and now all that will come to him is… well, really nothing at all. No more shaking, or crying, simply a warm stillness, coming in quiet waves to drown his fear.>

I don’t like it. Makes everyone hate me sso much more. <too loud, too much, too vulgar. When he smiles, he looks angry, when he cries, it looks like a grin, when he is angry, he looks indifferent. It causes some great confusion, unless you know how to decipher it all. By the amount of time he’s known Lasha, they’ve figured it out for the most part, surely. He could tell everyone that he is happy, but it’s easier to see through expressions and tone, than through words, for most. He wears his emotions on his sleeve, but they’re still difficult to know.>

..I’m okay now, I think. <maybe he’ll cry again later, but presently he’s afraid he’s run out of tears and gone numb with exhaustion.>

I used to.

[Lasha sighs, a story to tell, they don’t like telling it.]

I grew up with two older brothers, yes? They were.. way older than me, I wasn’t planned but I was welcomed.

[They remember the loneliness of brothers too old to want to play games like scrabble or chess, brothers who wouldn’t let them play on their Atari’s, brothers who would make them “it” in tag knowing they were slower, and would eventually just go inside.

At least Kamir tried to include them when he could, but even he was distant. The oldest always bares the brunt of it all, right? The oldest suffers most, the middle child is ignored, the youngest is adored.

That’s how it was in all the tv shows. They mostly watched MTV growing up, they liked the music even if their mother didn’t, Elijah had told them the code for the parental locks, Lasha remembered once when they were ten, coming upstairs in the middle of the night from their room in the basement to get some snacks.

Elijah on the couch. A woman and a man on the tv, her head thrown around in ecstasy, the subtle breathing shifts of Elijah.

Lasha stood there for.. they don’t know how long, trying to understand what it was they were watching. Their brain couldn’t make sense of it, even if they knew it wasn’t for them. It made them confused. The next morning Lasha looked at the tv all day, they didn’t know what channel it was, and they knew instinctively to keep it a secret from their parents.

They snuck up almost every night from that point forward, until one day, Elijah caught them.]

Well, growing up with brothers so much older than you.. my parents were pretty much done parenting by the time I was old enough to be somewhat self sufficient around eight or so was when I was first left home alone for an extended period of time.

[“You perv.” Elijah had chuckled, clapping Lasha on the back, he thought it was funny.

Lasha sat on the couch with him, he said they just couldn’t tell their parents otherwise they’d be in trouble, Lasha nodded, because they didn’t fully know what they were looking at, and they wanted to spend time with their big brother.

He never touched them. Never exposed himself to them, they just.. sat and watched, like they were watching any other movie. Lasha didn’t understand what a “perv” was.]

And eventually I just..

[They watched gorey movies too, not just porn. Hellraiser, the Exorcist, Possession.

Lasha couldn’t make sense of what they were seeing— their brain wasn’t developed enough for it. But they associated these films with their brother being nice to them, so they’d continue the ritual.]

Well, I’d get called a crybaby or annoying by Elijah whenever I cried or felt scared, so I just.. stopped.

[They didn’t like one movie he showed them. The Last House on the Left. Or Cannibal Holocaust, they hated those movies. They’d cuddle into his side for those movies, hiding in his chest, but they didn’t want to seem like a cry baby, and they were far too afraid to go back to their room alone.

Elijah took pity on them that night, and let them sleep in his room in the attic, and they thought maybe this meant he liked them again.]

It’s an environmental thing.

[Maybe those moments lead to that fight when they were seventeen. Their dad had gone out on a work trip, Elijah was at the house to watch Lasha for the week, even though they insisted they’d be fine by themself.]

I don’t like it, I hate it just as much as you do.

[The two had started arguing at breakfast, Elijah had taken what Lasha planned on bringing for lunch on Monday and eaten it, and refused to drive Lasha out to the grocery store to buy more food.

When they’d asked if he could give them some money for the school lunch, he shrugged and told them to figure it out.

At breakfast the next morning.. Lasha had said some less than kind things to him.

He said some less than nice things to them.

And they punched him.

And he was on top of them, choking them out.]

But I can’t change it no matter how much you want me to.

[The police were called, but dismissed it as a family dispute because of their relationship to each other and told them to knock it off.

Lasha slept with their door and window locked. A strange feeling that if he gets in.. he’d kill them.

He’d cooled off by the morning when they were getting ready for school.

<he jolts forward, their head, which is cradled in his lap still, moving forward by extent. He’d promised to watch them sleep… something about keeping an eye out for whoever may have left the curtains open- he knew, at the time it was likely more because they’d been scared.. a futile promise… shitty girlfriend. Abysmal girlfriend. He’d been braiding their hair- a way to comfort them, he’d hoped- before they made him swear it, and he had certainly tried to keep himself awake.. if he wanted to sleep, he’d have simply slipped into bed beside them. Rather, he’d drifted off with his head thrown back, only held by the wall, his hands still ensnared in the ginger-white sea held by the basin that are his thighs. This is something of an unfortunate situation, because in his vague attempts to protect himself, he yanks their hair. If they weren’t awake before, they certainly are now.>

<he breathes behind their head, like he’s having an asthma attack, shaking like a poorly-sealed window pane in high-speed winds. One hand goes up to touch his face, still covered in the few ambitious strands of their hair clinging to the spaces between his fingers. Jesus. Fuck. His hand comes back wet, and red. He assumes blood initially, and whines with such a degree of fear that one might be swayed to believe he was being held at gunpoint. It takes him a moment to realize it’s only the red of the moon slipping in fractions through the blinds, and painting his hands red. Sweat, he’s only sweating. He takes note of the hairs too, observing the color and texture, and quickly turning his head downwards to meet their eyes, once he better understands the situation.>

S- I didn’t m- I’m so- sorry.. ah… are you alright?

<his words come out with no traction, shaking and inevitably falling in on themselves before he can pile them into a proper sentence. It happens often, really. He’s much more articulate in his head, but his tongue will hardly get in line.>

—🪙 ( @carrying-coins) // stupid human Artie lock in bro and nno that wasn’t a project Hail Mary reference about watching eachother sleep for safety purposes I’d never 💕🥰

Mmmnnngg… wuh’shappenin’???

[Lasha jolted awake at the sharp sting in their head, red and white hair falling from Arties palm in a small clump. Oops.

They spoke quietly, not moving until they realized it was simply Artie being afraid, not their mysterious attacker from the days prior.

They held their head, moving Arties hat further down to cover their eyes. They could feel a headache coming on and they wanted to nip it in the bud while they still could.

Darkness always helps.

So does silence.

And sleep.

Three things they can hardly ever gain in this situation. In their dorm— Francis also dealt with chronic migraines. So they’d simply arranged quiet hours with Irina and Yana, eight pm to ten am was considered quiet hours for the sake of decompression.

It was nice. Even if the not everyone on the floor followed it, at least their room did.

They miss Francis. And Yana. And Irina. Even if Yana did always put Lasha on dishes with the chore chart, even if Irina accidentally ripped Lasha’s tights before a recital (which, to her credit, she had showed up ten minutes before they’d begun with a new pair of tights, sweaty and red faced. She’d been running, Lasha tried paying her back, she refused).

They rub the tender spot on their head, fingers threading through their braid. Huh. This feels complex, how long did it take?

They feel bad for ruining his work now.]

You okay?

[They sit up, they’ll deal with the headache, they know how to tune those out and continue on their daily life. They can tell when Artie needs them, and their discomfort is worth it to bring Artie comfort.

Their arms are warm as they lift the hat slightly, leaning up so they’re sat in his lap. The weight helps him ground himself— they think. They understand, when they were a kid they’d wrap themself up like a burrito in their weighted blanket and lay there for hours on end, drifting in and out all cozy and warm.

I’m fine- jus’ a dream ‘s all. You can go back t’ sleep, I didn’t mean t’… Are you okay?

<he feels awful for having stirred their rest. Especially by the means that he did. They’re already injured enough as is, there’s really no need to be provoking them further.>

<only a dream. He thinks dreams are stupid- purposeless and typically an interruption in sleep. He hadn’t had one he remembered, since sometime in his late teens maybe, which may explain his difficulty in soothing himself at first. If you do it more often, you become adjusted and discover methods to release the stress more quickly, right? He doesn’t know. …Maybe not.>

<he’d been walking, he remembers, though he can’t recall the purpose- only wandering in the night, through desecrated terrains, vague charred subjects posed about the landscape. A flicker of movement had caught his eye, and so, he’d gone towards it. The silhouette of pink came into view, prompting him to approach more rapidly, recognition giving way to a sense of familiarity and thereby comfort. A moth to the flame, a coyote to a snare, cattle to the slaughterhouse. He’d called their name various times, but this failed to illicit a reaction. Once close enough, he brushed his fingers along the fur of their coats, only hardly skimming the texture, before they whipped back with a sudden flurry of movement, and pinned him to the floor. He faintly recalls saying something to them- he doesn’t quite know what- before their face peeled back into various flaps, in the shape of a flower, interiors all lined with needle-sharp teeth. The segments grew exponentially more complex, spilling into one another and simultaneously bifurcating, slathered in a viscous red fluid- he’d assumed blood, though the liquid was far more condensed than the matter of his comparison. They offered a brief window for him to stare, before lunging down and swallowing both feet at once, dragging him down their throat bit by bit, not dissimilar to the way a snake may take its prey. It took him until they were down to his hips, before he realized what was happening, and with a cry, he began to flail desperately, a futile gamble at escape. It took only a matter of seconds, for them to consume him entirely, whereupon he curled, silent and cramped in their stomach. He lay there, dampened by the moisture clinging to the inner lining of the cavity, suppressed into a claustrophobic cavern he could not escape.>

<he thinks he must’ve stayed there for weeks, maybe months. It felt like forever. And suddenly, to end his purgatory, a gunshot, singular and precise, surely the only sound he’d heard in all his life. The sound was accompanied only by a sliver of light penetrating his enclosure, which with a frantic determination, he forced himself out of. He fell firmly to the floor, naked and blood-covered, though none was his own, but rather his captor’s. He heard some vague whispering, and perhaps some laughter that hardly fit the situation, though he paid it little mind. Pink fell at his side, writhing furiously, and he attempted vainly to push their innards back in towards the newly-formed incision along their abdomen. At his touch, they were set aflame, and they shrieked something to him, which he failed to understand, though the message was clear enough; this is your fault. He blinked once, and by the time he’d reopened his eyes they were little but a collection of charred flesh, not in the shape, nor statute of what they were before, but folds of skin, black and crumbling. The laughter hit a crest in amplitude, fortissimoed as he searched for the source.>

I don’t buy that for two seconds given the chunk you just ripped out of my scalp.. hehe.

[They chuckled slightly, their body was lighter. They haven’t been eating right lately. Some days it’s three full meals, some days they can only ever keep water down. If it isn’t the pain from their leg making them nauseous, it’s the pain killers. They can either be in pain and nauseous but smart, or not in pain and nauseous but dumb.

Especially with their arm, constantly weeping pus into bandages, staining it yellow until Temujin or Ilya come to help with the disinfecting. Lasha speaks of bacteria during these moments, creating a distraction so they could try to forget about the stinging of alcohol killing germs. Infection is deadly, the skin is hot to the touch, their immune system heats their body to fight the invaders trying to conquer the vast biosphere they are host to.

They dared to follow Artie into the darkness though, his heart an ark to light their way. Breathing deeply until his own breathing leveled out. Pressing his head to their chest, the warmth from their body steady, their heart thrumming evenly.

They rested their head atop the crown of his, letting their eyes squeeze shut to try to fight off the headache they could feel forming behind their eyes, a pressure that fizzed and popped with every sensory input, like Rice Krispies.

They pet the back of his head, not the best with emotional comfort nowadays, physical comfort they could provide, warm arms to hide in, soft skin to press into, steady hands to grasp.

They liked the kind of comfort Artie sought, the kind where the two could simply exist in each other’s presence without removing any clothing, diving under blankets to hide away from the sunlight and bask in each others body heat.

They liked Artie. He was safe. He was good.]

I won’t force you to talk about it.. but if you need me or want someone to listen then.. I’m here. Y’know that, right?

[It’s hard to open up for Lasha— their past? It’s easy, they can detach themself from their own life experiences and simply tell it in that cold, clinical tone they take on when they’re creating a distance between their mind and their life. Simply tell it as it is.

But pressing into the emotions of it all is where things get trickier. Lasha doesn’t handle emotions well. It’s better for them to ignore their daily emotions, even if it makes their head hurt and their stomach twist in knots.

The comfort of another’s emotions is uncomfortable for them. But they can put away their own discomfort for Arties sake. He’s a good person, he’s a kind person.

I know. I knoww, I know. <the words escape him as some piteous whimper. It might almost be better if he didn’t know. If they were meaner to him, maybe he wouldn’t be so adamant to bother them.>

<he debates, about whether or not to tell them- not because he’s really got any yield towards pouring his innards out to anybody who will help him put them back in place, but because Pink was there, in his dream. He’d still yet to tell Lasha the true reason for the loss of his leg, avoidant, for fear that they’d go after them with pitchforks and torches… he swallows thickly, eyes screwed up shut for a moment, before returning to the vastness of the surrounding room.>

<almost as quickly, he shuts them again, terrified of the openness, of the possibility that something come in through the window or the door, that Lasha may leave, or some other terrible event may occur. Too big, too silent, too familiar, too much, with medical tools scattered about, shades of tainted white stuck to the walls, and moonlight slipping through the cracks. He hates it here. He hates the infirmary. He’d come to give them the comfort and attention he was so hungry for, when he was stuck here, only the roles had been reversed. He feels beyond stupid and pathetic, to be scared of a dream, when they’re struggling objectively more. He doesn’t understand their kindness. He never really has, and he’s not sure he ever really will.>

[Lasha listened, nodding, tapping their fingers against their cane like a drum while they thought. Does he want them to speak to him as a lover? Or as a scientist?

Lasha opts for the latter. They find comfort in facts, they hope Artie does too.]

Dreams are primarily the subconscious trying to prepare you for the possibility of a scenario, but that doesn’t make the scenario a guarantee.. I don’t really know how to comfort you.

[They look down at his pitiful face, clicking their tongue against their teeth. They want to save him from drowning while they’re being sent to the gallows.

In an emergency, you need to put your own oxygen mask on before you help another person. But that metaphors so overused.. it’s so easy to ignore, just like how the safety instructions on airplanes are ignored.

They look around, checking the curtains, the suns setting. They’d be awake in an hour or so anyways. At least nobody opened the curtains, whoever tried to kill them either didn’t strike tonight, or Artie simply being there was enough to deter them.

Or it was a complete mistake, but Lasha wholly believes someone is attempting to get rid of them. They just wish they knew who, so they’d know who to point the gun at and force out of the house.]

Here— uh. Don’t tell Ilya.

[They pass an orange to Artie, fruit is scarce, Lasha has a mysterious source they go to for the resource. A whole orange, the economy is in free fall, global trade halted, an orange that is so full of juice it’s practically bursting, you could sink your teeth into it like an animal and transcend humanity.

Lasha doesn’t like to talk about what they do to gain these scarce resources.]

Just— is me talking in general helping? Or.. I mean, it was a dream, and a dream that far detached from reality can’t come true in any way, shape or form, even if times are weird now.. there are still rules to obey. Rules of physics, rules of reality.. but.. you already know this. I don’t know why I speak to you sometimes like you don’t know something. Habit I guess.

<he blinks at their offering, diluted in shape, as a byproduct of his crying. An orange? He reaches one hand up to touch it, discovering that his theory, was in fact correct. Where on earth might they have gotten an orange? He moves away from the warmth of their arms, to sit up, tucking himself, instead against the backmost wall, parallel to the bed. An orange, an orange, an orange…. What an odd thing. He narrows his eyes at it, getting to work on digging his fingernails beneath the acidic skin. He’s good at getting under peoples’ skin. The orange serves as a task, for his erratic mind, a distraction, something to focus on aside from his panic. Keeps him from catastrophizing. He’s good at tasks.>

<he finishes with this one quickly, discarding sections of the peel into one pile in front of himself, before splitting the fruit into two halves, one of which he offers to Lasha as a cursory “thank you”. That done, he begins separating the pith from the center, peeling it ever-so-carefully. He listens silently once they begin speaking again, though at first glance it may appear as though he were ignoring them entirely.>

Yes. <yes, their chatter does help. He becomes astonishingly inarticulate when upset. The words get stuck behind his tongue, and with the inability to communicate verbally, all his body knows to do is cry, and cry, and cry, to get the point across. He does it so often you’d wonder if he has an ounce of water left in his system. He cries when he’s excited, or angry, or scared, or really anything at all. He likes to listen to all their science-talk. It interests him greatly, to hear what they’ve got stored up in their head. He does it back, typically, as some sort of mutual-bonding transaction, a piece of useless information for a piece of useless information. He tells them more about history, though, than science.>

<finally, with the pith gone, he works at removing the fibrous membrane surrounding the sweetest part of the fruit, only eating bits off once it’s entirely raw. At the first few bites, he begins to hiccup. An entire symphony of noise, from him alone, small sniffles and sobs, interrupted by a hiccup of sudden inhale, some rhythmic cacophony.>

[Lasha shakes their head at the offered fruit. It’s his, keep it. They got it for him and him only. They paid in their body, spectral virginity. They don’t know why Artie stays either. Growing up they’d been told men like women who are quiet, shy, reserved.. pure. Virgin.

Lasha hasn’t been clean in a long time, they thought they’d marry him, so they thought it was okay to lay with him.

Look where that got them. About once a week they feel paralyzed when he touches them, jerking away like he’s burned them and shaking their head.

Or they just go quiet.

Lasha has quiet days more often now, they just sit and drink water and think, quiet. It’s best not to disturb them in these times, it’s best to let them forget where they are, slip into the safety of their mind, slip into the arms of their grandmother— who escaped a generational curse among women in their family, only for their mother to repeat the pattern.

Lasha probably will too. Maybe they’ll take too many pain killers and slip calmly, maybe they’ll put their head in the oven, maybe they’ll be like the women in wartimes, taking their lives before the men could find them.]

…every seven to ten years your cells replace themselves fully. Completely. Not at the same time, though. Skin cells for example replace themselves every week or so. And those will all replace at different times. Our bodies are constantly dying, we have newly generated cells right next to ones that are actively fading..

[Lasha trails off, they’re going quiet again, feeling themself fade as they think. It’s this look in their eyes that they gain. A subtle peace.

Let’s say.. in about seven years, when their twenty eight or so (and let’s be generous and add another year for luck), they’d be, technically “born anew”, that lingering feeling would no longer physically be there.

The cells that experienced their violations would be eradicated.

They would’ve liked to look forward to that day.

But they don’t think they’ll get that luxury.

They don’t think they’ll ever get that luxury.

But it’s a moment of autonomy, they’re giving themself the power to decide when and if they have that moment.

<endless chatter, it drives him to insanity. Almost as though attempting to quiet the noise at the interior of his head, he brings his hands a fraction of the way over his ears, fingers curled into his hair. He hates the stickiness on his hands, the texture of his hair down his neck, the heat in his gut, he hates it all. Every sensation is far too much for his delicate nervous system.>

<he looks down to his leg, blurred between measures of tears, which only come at a upped tempo as he observes. He hadn’t really thought about the nature of his leg’s loss. Some small hope that it’d be fine, because he could simply get a prosthetic or some other form of bettered mobility. The reality is much more severe. He will never run properly, nor ride a bike, nor jump. The pain will be chronic, and more issues will continue to present themselves as he drags himself on. His ability to fully experience life, has been severed, all for the price of something as innate to most as having a leg. He hadn’t considered it really, until now. And it came as a result of his attempt to recover somebody he loves. Does that make it his fault, or theirs? Why would they do that? No, He knows why. He just can’t wrap his head around it. The same as hitting a deer with your car, entirely unintentional, and still hurtful regardless. But is it the deer’s fault for not moving out of the way, or the driver’s for not seeing it sooner?>

<They’re easing into a numbed dissociation, while he’s edging towards complete meltdown, opposites in their methods of dealing with stress. He wants to run and hit and cry, where they go stiff and blank. Instead, he lies back, curled on his side, facing them with a wet face, so tired, so upset, entirely shattered by the sheer number of realizations that he’s been made to consider, and simultaneously made better by them, surely? They were all bound to come to him at one point or another, but all at once… is that better or worse? Best to rip the bandaid off, he supposes.>

I like seeing you. It makes the physical therapy easier when we can do it together..

[The bullet wound was sticky with scabs and muscle trying to heal itself, they’d probably have a hole in their leg forever, even after the skin heals. Like a brown recluse biting into you, it was necrotic when they were shot.]

I think it’s good for morale. I probably would’ve downed my pain killers all at once a long time ago if I didn’t have you visiting me.

[An uncomfortable truth, and the reason their medication is monitored to such an extreme, the reason they can’t get more doses sooner, the reason the time of their medication dose is logged on a paper Temujin keeps with him.

He recognizes the active suicide risk that Lasha is in. They recognize it too, but they can’t stop the feeling that they’ll probably end up dying soon. Dying from anything, really, an std, an overdose, burning alive, a visitor, getting shot, or their body finally just rebelling against years of trauma.

They say they’ve accepted it, but it’s just a thing people say. Lasha is terrified of death. The finality of it all. They’re terrified of heaven, too, and hell, the concept of eternity is something impossible for them to wrap their mind around, they’d drive themself insane trying to get a grasp of the other side sooner or later.

Lasha was losing themself, they felt it in all the ways they saw others react around them. They were as lost as a lamb, wearing a wolves skin and baring its dull teeth.

Despite their calm demeanor, Lasha was terrified, a terrified creature who will never dance again. And they always tell themself it could be worse. To the point where it’s hard to tell where the phrase being a comfort ends and becoming a repressor begins.

It could be worse. Their leg could be gone.

They don’t know which they’d prefer.]

<he reaches one hand down to feel the remaining section of his leg, the mostly-healed surface, formed into one large scar. He bites back a sob, upset at feeling further alienated from his species, upset at his eternally impaired mobility, upset that he’s so sure nobody likes him, upset because he’s afraid he feels their impending doom, too, upset, upset, upset. He doesn’t want to feel upset anymore. Stupid nightmare. Sent him to a tizzy.>

I.. ssorry. <for crying so much, and waking them up, and being so loud.> Lasha, I miss my leg. An’ I’m scared. I r-I don’t like bein’ scared. Are you scared too?

<he whispers to the shape of their face, the vague outline of their head in the darkness coming. Stupid him. He wants to go back to sleep. Away from them, maybe, where he wouldn’t wake them up again. He wants to walk again. Away from the world, where he can go where he likes without others worry. He wants to talk properly, and be kinder. He really is trying his best.>

I am.

[Lasha laid their head atop of Arties, cheek pressing into locks of brown hair.

They internalize themself, it’s hard to tell how they feel on a daily basis— extremes make them cry, extremes make them external, but they’re becoming all too used to the extreme. And internalizing some more.

They’re becoming boring. And they worry that their boringness will make Artie leave them, if not that, then when he finds out about the infidelity— even if it’s for scarce resources, even if it’s for survival, that will certainly make him so disgusted with them, that he’ll leave.

And they think it’d be for the best most days, if Artie gained some self respect and left. He’s the open wound that will never heal. Sometimes they wonder why he sticks around.

They don’t say these thoughts, far too afraid of being vulnerable, or misconstrued.]

I’m afraid every day. I just don’t have the privilege to show it.

[They look down, closing their eyes as the night encases them, strange is their daily life now. They want to lie down forever.

They figure they can have their morals when their belly is full.]

I wish I could.

[They sigh.]

I like that you do. I like how you wear your emotions on your sleeve. I can read you like a book.

[They smile slightly, but it fades, they’re trying so hard to keep him from crying more, they’re terrible with tears. They’re terrible with grief. They’re just trying to survive and the sadness that overcomes them is making it impossible. Anticipating grief, and grieving those who are still alive, knowing they’ll one day be dead.

And then what?

Lasha misses camping out in their backyard, they’d sleep in a hammock that had a mosquito net, they’d do it when they fell ill, fever or flu or strep, whatever, being inside only made them feel worse. They’d sit under the patio if it rained, but they’d minimize their time inside as much as possible.

They miss their dad mostly, thinking about him brings a lump to their throat they try to swallow. They miss their dad. They miss being his little girl, sleeping in his bed after their mom killed herself because the weight of their sadness threatened to take them with her.

They think they’ll follow in their mom’s footsteps one day. It’s a generational curse. Just because there was one oddity doesn’t mean the pattern isn’t there. Maybe it skips every few generations.

They swallow thickly, and breathe calmly.]

<he jolts forward, their head, which is cradled in his lap still, moving forward by extent. He’d promised to watch them sleep… something about keeping an eye out for whoever may have left the curtains open- he knew, at the time it was likely more because they’d been scared.. a futile promise… shitty girlfriend. Abysmal girlfriend. He’d been braiding their hair- a way to comfort them, he’d hoped- before they made him swear it, and he had certainly tried to keep himself awake.. if he wanted to sleep, he’d have simply slipped into bed beside them. Rather, he’d drifted off with his head thrown back, only held by the wall, his hands still ensnared in the ginger-white sea held by the basin that are his thighs. This is something of an unfortunate situation, because in his vague attempts to protect himself, he yanks their hair. If they weren’t awake before, they certainly are now.>

<he breathes behind their head, like he’s having an asthma attack, shaking like a poorly-sealed window pane in high-speed winds. One hand goes up to touch his face, still covered in the few ambitious strands of their hair clinging to the spaces between his fingers. Jesus. Fuck. His hand comes back wet, and red. He assumes blood initially, and whines with such a degree of fear that one might be swayed to believe he was being held at gunpoint. It takes him a moment to realize it’s only the red of the moon slipping in fractions through the blinds, and painting his hands red. Sweat, he’s only sweating. He takes note of the hairs too, observing the color and texture, and quickly turning his head downwards to meet their eyes, once he better understands the situation.>

S- I didn’t m- I’m so- sorry.. ah… are you alright?

<his words come out with no traction, shaking and inevitably falling in on themselves before he can pile them into a proper sentence. It happens often, really. He’s much more articulate in his head, but his tongue will hardly get in line.>

—🪙 ( @carrying-coins) // stupid human Artie lock in bro and nno that wasn’t a project Hail Mary reference about watching eachother sleep for safety purposes I’d never 💕🥰

Mmmnnngg… wuh’shappenin’???

[Lasha jolted awake at the sharp sting in their head, red and white hair falling from Arties palm in a small clump. Oops.

They spoke quietly, not moving until they realized it was simply Artie being afraid, not their mysterious attacker from the days prior.

They held their head, moving Arties hat further down to cover their eyes. They could feel a headache coming on and they wanted to nip it in the bud while they still could.

Darkness always helps.

So does silence.

And sleep.

Three things they can hardly ever gain in this situation. In their dorm— Francis also dealt with chronic migraines. So they’d simply arranged quiet hours with Irina and Yana, eight pm to ten am was considered quiet hours for the sake of decompression.

It was nice. Even if the not everyone on the floor followed it, at least their room did.

They miss Francis. And Yana. And Irina. Even if Yana did always put Lasha on dishes with the chore chart, even if Irina accidentally ripped Lasha’s tights before a recital (which, to her credit, she had showed up ten minutes before they’d begun with a new pair of tights, sweaty and red faced. She’d been running, Lasha tried paying her back, she refused).

They rub the tender spot on their head, fingers threading through their braid. Huh. This feels complex, how long did it take?

They feel bad for ruining his work now.]

You okay?

[They sit up, they’ll deal with the headache, they know how to tune those out and continue on their daily life. They can tell when Artie needs them, and their discomfort is worth it to bring Artie comfort.

Their arms are warm as they lift the hat slightly, leaning up so they’re sat in his lap. The weight helps him ground himself— they think. They understand, when they were a kid they’d wrap themself up like a burrito in their weighted blanket and lay there for hours on end, drifting in and out all cozy and warm.

I’m fine- jus’ a dream ‘s all. You can go back t’ sleep, I didn’t mean t’… Are you okay?

<he feels awful for having stirred their rest. Especially by the means that he did. They’re already injured enough as is, there’s really no need to be provoking them further.>

<only a dream. He thinks dreams are stupid- purposeless and typically an interruption in sleep. He hadn’t had one he remembered, since sometime in his late teens maybe, which may explain his difficulty in soothing himself at first. If you do it more often, you become adjusted and discover methods to release the stress more quickly, right? He doesn’t know. …Maybe not.>

<he’d been walking, he remembers, though he can’t recall the purpose- only wandering in the night, through desecrated terrains, vague charred subjects posed about the landscape. A flicker of movement had caught his eye, and so, he’d gone towards it. The silhouette of pink came into view, prompting him to approach more rapidly, recognition giving way to a sense of familiarity and thereby comfort. A moth to the flame, a coyote to a snare, cattle to the slaughterhouse. He’d called their name various times, but this failed to illicit a reaction. Once close enough, he brushed his fingers along the fur of their coats, only hardly skimming the texture, before they whipped back with a sudden flurry of movement, and pinned him to the floor. He faintly recalls saying something to them- he doesn’t quite know what- before their face peeled back into various flaps, in the shape of a flower, interiors all lined with needle-sharp teeth. The segments grew exponentially more complex, spilling into one another and simultaneously bifurcating, slathered in a viscous red fluid- he’d assumed blood, though the liquid was far more condensed than the matter of his comparison. They offered a brief window for him to stare, before lunging down and swallowing both feet at once, dragging him down their throat bit by bit, not dissimilar to the way a snake may take its prey. It took him until they were down to his hips, before he realized what was happening, and with a cry, he began to flail desperately, a futile gamble at escape. It took only a matter of seconds, for them to consume him entirely, whereupon he curled, silent and cramped in their stomach. He lay there, dampened by the moisture clinging to the inner lining of the cavity, suppressed into a claustrophobic cavern he could not escape.>

<he thinks he must’ve stayed there for weeks, maybe months. It felt like forever. And suddenly, to end his purgatory, a gunshot, singular and precise, surely the only sound he’d heard in all his life. The sound was accompanied only by a sliver of light penetrating his enclosure, which with a frantic determination, he forced himself out of. He fell firmly to the floor, naked and blood-covered, though none was his own, but rather his captor’s. He heard some vague whispering, and perhaps some laughter that hardly fit the situation, though he paid it little mind. Pink fell at his side, writhing furiously, and he attempted vainly to push their innards back in towards the newly-formed incision along their abdomen. At his touch, they were set aflame, and they shrieked something to him, which he failed to understand, though the message was clear enough; this is your fault. He blinked once, and by the time he’d reopened his eyes they were little but a collection of charred flesh, not in the shape, nor statute of what they were before, but folds of skin, black and crumbling. The laughter hit a crest in amplitude, fortissimoed as he searched for the source.>

I don’t buy that for two seconds given the chunk you just ripped out of my scalp.. hehe.

[They chuckled slightly, their body was lighter. They haven’t been eating right lately. Some days it’s three full meals, some days they can only ever keep water down. If it isn’t the pain from their leg making them nauseous, it’s the pain killers. They can either be in pain and nauseous but smart, or not in pain and nauseous but dumb.

Especially with their arm, constantly weeping pus into bandages, staining it yellow until Temujin or Ilya come to help with the disinfecting. Lasha speaks of bacteria during these moments, creating a distraction so they could try to forget about the stinging of alcohol killing germs. Infection is deadly, the skin is hot to the touch, their immune system heats their body to fight the invaders trying to conquer the vast biosphere they are host to.

They dared to follow Artie into the darkness though, his heart an ark to light their way. Breathing deeply until his own breathing leveled out. Pressing his head to their chest, the warmth from their body steady, their heart thrumming evenly.

They rested their head atop the crown of his, letting their eyes squeeze shut to try to fight off the headache they could feel forming behind their eyes, a pressure that fizzed and popped with every sensory input, like Rice Krispies.

They pet the back of his head, not the best with emotional comfort nowadays, physical comfort they could provide, warm arms to hide in, soft skin to press into, steady hands to grasp.

They liked the kind of comfort Artie sought, the kind where the two could simply exist in each other’s presence without removing any clothing, diving under blankets to hide away from the sunlight and bask in each others body heat.

They liked Artie. He was safe. He was good.]

I won’t force you to talk about it.. but if you need me or want someone to listen then.. I’m here. Y’know that, right?

[It’s hard to open up for Lasha— their past? It’s easy, they can detach themself from their own life experiences and simply tell it in that cold, clinical tone they take on when they’re creating a distance between their mind and their life. Simply tell it as it is.

But pressing into the emotions of it all is where things get trickier. Lasha doesn’t handle emotions well. It’s better for them to ignore their daily emotions, even if it makes their head hurt and their stomach twist in knots.

The comfort of another’s emotions is uncomfortable for them. But they can put away their own discomfort for Arties sake. He’s a good person, he’s a kind person.

I know. I knoww, I know. <the words escape him as some piteous whimper. It might almost be better if he didn’t know. If they were meaner to him, maybe he wouldn’t be so adamant to bother them.>

<he debates, about whether or not to tell them- not because he’s really got any yield towards pouring his innards out to anybody who will help him put them back in place, but because Pink was there, in his dream. He’d still yet to tell Lasha the true reason for the loss of his leg, avoidant, for fear that they’d go after them with pitchforks and torches… he swallows thickly, eyes screwed up shut for a moment, before returning to the vastness of the surrounding room.>

<almost as quickly, he shuts them again, terrified of the openness, of the possibility that something come in through the window or the door, that Lasha may leave, or some other terrible event may occur. Too big, too silent, too familiar, too much, with medical tools scattered about, shades of tainted white stuck to the walls, and moonlight slipping through the cracks. He hates it here. He hates the infirmary. He’d come to give them the comfort and attention he was so hungry for, when he was stuck here, only the roles had been reversed. He feels beyond stupid and pathetic, to be scared of a dream, when they’re struggling objectively more. He doesn’t understand their kindness. He never really has, and he’s not sure he ever really will.>

[Lasha listened, nodding, tapping their fingers against their cane like a drum while they thought. Does he want them to speak to him as a lover? Or as a scientist?

Lasha opts for the latter. They find comfort in facts, they hope Artie does too.]

Dreams are primarily the subconscious trying to prepare you for the possibility of a scenario, but that doesn’t make the scenario a guarantee.. I don’t really know how to comfort you.

[They look down at his pitiful face, clicking their tongue against their teeth. They want to save him from drowning while they’re being sent to the gallows.

In an emergency, you need to put your own oxygen mask on before you help another person. But that metaphors so overused.. it’s so easy to ignore, just like how the safety instructions on airplanes are ignored.

They look around, checking the curtains, the suns setting. They’d be awake in an hour or so anyways. At least nobody opened the curtains, whoever tried to kill them either didn’t strike tonight, or Artie simply being there was enough to deter them.

Or it was a complete mistake, but Lasha wholly believes someone is attempting to get rid of them. They just wish they knew who, so they’d know who to point the gun at and force out of the house.]

Here— uh. Don’t tell Ilya.

[They pass an orange to Artie, fruit is scarce, Lasha has a mysterious source they go to for the resource. A whole orange, the economy is in free fall, global trade halted, an orange that is so full of juice it’s practically bursting, you could sink your teeth into it like an animal and transcend humanity.

Lasha doesn’t like to talk about what they do to gain these scarce resources.]

Just— is me talking in general helping? Or.. I mean, it was a dream, and a dream that far detached from reality can’t come true in any way, shape or form, even if times are weird now.. there are still rules to obey. Rules of physics, rules of reality.. but.. you already know this. I don’t know why I speak to you sometimes like you don’t know something. Habit I guess.

<he blinks at their offering, diluted in shape, as a byproduct of his crying. An orange? He reaches one hand up to touch it, discovering that his theory, was in fact correct. Where on earth might they have gotten an orange? He moves away from the warmth of their arms, to sit up, tucking himself, instead against the backmost wall, parallel to the bed. An orange, an orange, an orange…. What an odd thing. He narrows his eyes at it, getting to work on digging his fingernails beneath the acidic skin. He’s good at getting under peoples’ skin. The orange serves as a task, for his erratic mind, a distraction, something to focus on aside from his panic. Keeps him from catastrophizing. He’s good at tasks.>

<he finishes with this one quickly, discarding sections of the peel into one pile in front of himself, before splitting the fruit into two halves, one of which he offers to Lasha as a cursory “thank you”. That done, he begins separating the pith from the center, peeling it ever-so-carefully. He listens silently once they begin speaking again, though at first glance it may appear as though he were ignoring them entirely.>

Yes. <yes, their chatter does help. He becomes astonishingly inarticulate when upset. The words get stuck behind his tongue, and with the inability to communicate verbally, all his body knows to do is cry, and cry, and cry, to get the point across. He does it so often you’d wonder if he has an ounce of water left in his system. He cries when he’s excited, or angry, or scared, or really anything at all. He likes to listen to all their science-talk. It interests him greatly, to hear what they’ve got stored up in their head. He does it back, typically, as some sort of mutual-bonding transaction, a piece of useless information for a piece of useless information. He tells them more about history, though, than science.>

<finally, with the pith gone, he works at removing the fibrous membrane surrounding the sweetest part of the fruit, only eating bits off once it’s entirely raw. At the first few bites, he begins to hiccup. An entire symphony of noise, from him alone, small sniffles and sobs, interrupted by a hiccup of sudden inhale, some rhythmic cacophony.>

[Lasha shakes their head at the offered fruit. It’s his, keep it. They got it for him and him only. They paid in their body, spectral virginity. They don’t know why Artie stays either. Growing up they’d been told men like women who are quiet, shy, reserved.. pure. Virgin.

Lasha hasn’t been clean in a long time, they thought they’d marry him, so they thought it was okay to lay with him.

Look where that got them. About once a week they feel paralyzed when he touches them, jerking away like he’s burned them and shaking their head.

Or they just go quiet.

Lasha has quiet days more often now, they just sit and drink water and think, quiet. It’s best not to disturb them in these times, it’s best to let them forget where they are, slip into the safety of their mind, slip into the arms of their grandmother— who escaped a generational curse among women in their family, only for their mother to repeat the pattern.

Lasha probably will too. Maybe they’ll take too many pain killers and slip calmly, maybe they’ll put their head in the oven, maybe they’ll be like the women in wartimes, taking their lives before the men could find them.]

…every seven to ten years your cells replace themselves fully. Completely. Not at the same time, though. Skin cells for example replace themselves every week or so. And those will all replace at different times. Our bodies are constantly dying, we have newly generated cells right next to ones that are actively fading..

[Lasha trails off, they’re going quiet again, feeling themself fade as they think. It’s this look in their eyes that they gain. A subtle peace.

Let’s say.. in about seven years, when their twenty eight or so (and let’s be generous and add another year for luck), they’d be, technically “born anew”, that lingering feeling would no longer physically be there.

The cells that experienced their violations would be eradicated.

They would’ve liked to look forward to that day.

But they don’t think they’ll get that luxury.

They don’t think they’ll ever get that luxury.

But it’s a moment of autonomy, they’re giving themself the power to decide when and if they have that moment.

<endless chatter, it drives him to insanity. Almost as though attempting to quiet the noise at the interior of his head, he brings his hands a fraction of the way over his ears, fingers curled into his hair. He hates the stickiness on his hands, the texture of his hair down his neck, the heat in his gut, he hates it all. Every sensation is far too much for his delicate nervous system.>

<he looks down to his leg, blurred between measures of tears, which only come at a upped tempo as he observes. He hadn’t really thought about the nature of his leg’s loss. Some small hope that it’d be fine, because he could simply get a prosthetic or some other form of bettered mobility. The reality is much more severe. He will never run properly, nor ride a bike, nor jump. The pain will be chronic, and more issues will continue to present themselves as he drags himself on. His ability to fully experience life, has been severed, all for the price of something as innate to most as having a leg. He hadn’t considered it really, until now. And it came as a result of his attempt to recover somebody he loves. Does that make it his fault, or theirs? Why would they do that? No, He knows why. He just can’t wrap his head around it. The same as hitting a deer with your car, entirely unintentional, and still hurtful regardless. But is it the deer’s fault for not moving out of the way, or the driver’s for not seeing it sooner?>

<They’re easing into a numbed dissociation, while he’s edging towards complete meltdown, opposites in their methods of dealing with stress. He wants to run and hit and cry, where they go stiff and blank. Instead, he lies back, curled on his side, facing them with a wet face, so tired, so upset, entirely shattered by the sheer number of realizations that he’s been made to consider, and simultaneously made better by them, surely? They were all bound to come to him at one point or another, but all at once… is that better or worse? Best to rip the bandaid off, he supposes.>

I like seeing you. It makes the physical therapy easier when we can do it together..

[The bullet wound was sticky with scabs and muscle trying to heal itself, they’d probably have a hole in their leg forever, even after the skin heals. Like a brown recluse biting into you, it was necrotic when they were shot.]

I think it’s good for morale. I probably would’ve downed my pain killers all at once a long time ago if I didn’t have you visiting me.

[An uncomfortable truth, and the reason their medication is monitored to such an extreme, the reason they can’t get more doses sooner, the reason the time of their medication dose is logged on a paper Temujin keeps with him.

He recognizes the active suicide risk that Lasha is in. They recognize it too, but they can’t stop the feeling that they’ll probably end up dying soon. Dying from anything, really, an std, an overdose, burning alive, a visitor, getting shot, or their body finally just rebelling against years of trauma.

They say they’ve accepted it, but it’s just a thing people say. Lasha is terrified of death. The finality of it all. They’re terrified of heaven, too, and hell, the concept of eternity is something impossible for them to wrap their mind around, they’d drive themself insane trying to get a grasp of the other side sooner or later.

Lasha was losing themself, they felt it in all the ways they saw others react around them. They were as lost as a lamb, wearing a wolves skin and baring its dull teeth.

Despite their calm demeanor, Lasha was terrified, a terrified creature who will never dance again. And they always tell themself it could be worse. To the point where it’s hard to tell where the phrase being a comfort ends and becoming a repressor begins.

It could be worse. Their leg could be gone.

They don’t know which they’d prefer.]