the anti-hero.

a central character in a story, movie, or drama who lacks conventional heroic attributes. they often fail many times and are known to be flawed. opposite of the tragic hero, you often do things out of selfishness so you can advance and grow as an individual. this is often done unconsciously. when people ask for favors, you expect rewards in return. your personality can be seen as complicated and you often can through a cycle of moods in a matter of what seems like seconds. you're seen as typically aggressive and full of emotion. there would be times where it seems like you are completely calm and then at a flip of coin be upset about something. you have a lot on your mind 24/7 and it's hard for you to handle. sometimes your attempts at showing you care can backfire, since you often get too into the emotional aspect of the situation.

     𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙷𝚄𝙼𝙾𝚁 𝙸𝙽 𝙷𝙾𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁; the softer side of the incoming knife, the pleasantries in our shared suffering. his laugh is dry and uncouth, sarcastic as it is curiously genuine, disappearing quietly before it lives too long. he props his arms along his knees and slouches forward, head hanging between his legs. the inside of his mouth is still all iron, and his body aches with old pain. blood smears and cakes in parts of his hair. jiāng keeps a secret grin to himself. never been funny, he thinks, but damn if it tickles.

     “you’d be surprised. thinks everything is more than it is. no getting off that ride once it starts.” no shocker here. the question is what he won’t do. what he wouldn’t do to see you stay perfectly in place, pretty as you are in his minds eye, down to the last puzzle piece. he’s more calculating than he lets on, more down the wire than one could imagine. it’s a truth that’s buried itself deep within him, haunting him for years after the fact. adam was something none could understand. he was something no one was supposed to know.

     ev’s red smoke wafts through the room and colors their world. jiāng makes no response to his confession. between them, it didn’t matter. it wasn’t necessary for them to hate or like each other, but jiāng continued on as a ticking bomb, strung against adam as if to still do his bidding. trapped in the spiders web. he closes his eyes for a moment and inhales deeply, leaning back against the wall. his eyes stand out in the dim of the night as he stares forward, mind elsewhere, lips pressed into a thin line.

     “that’s the problem,” he says, voice low. the walls have ears. “i couldn’t get him to come back even if i tried. i can’t make him go anywhere. can’t make him do anything. no one can.”

   COMFORT IS A DEAD WISH. NON-EXISTENT FOR GHOULS, WORTH nothing to humans, hard to receive from those that truly deserved it. despite this juxtaposition of recent events filling his life however, ev remains friendly. confides in nothing other than himself, that he’s someone who lives life like the rest of the world. not always the devil on a night shift, the city’s man-eater. he’s not someone who shapes suspicion into threats; that was mindless antagonism. rather, he’s like a cat tailing an odd smell, curiosity equivalent to an animal’s. and he knows, knows quite well, that this route is rather futile.

 and yet, they sit across from each other.

so alike on opposite ends of a chasm, facing each other but not really seeing, listening but not really hearing, and words did little to bridge the gap between them; as quickly as they were constructed, they fell, until the idea of crossing seemed as foolish as icarus attempting to out fly the sun. discourse quells them, but tonight, if only for a moment do they share reprieve. outside it is as dark as the sky is alive and indiscriminate;  thick sheets of rain drape over the tinny roof of his balcony like coins from a pocket. thunder booms outside, breaking what stream of conversation they’ve maintained thus far, which is nothing they haven’t already discussed countless times before. words fall from jiang’s voice while red exhaust bleeds from ev’s, as if to illuminate each statement further, highlighting the practicality of it all. his prolonged staring isn’t at the other, but through him. his eye leers the vague shape of a door behind him.

 far behind him. they’re closer to the window than they are the door: two means of entering and escaping. one is smaller, but closer, he thinks. the lack of convenience is intentional, because from here, the light from the kitchen stove shows through a thin slit at the bottom, splaying over creaky wooden planks, between the legs of jiang’s chair. ev rarely turned on this light. one thing out of many things in this apartment that wasn’t used for its manufactured purpose. inconsequential reasons, really-- nothing other than a signal to him now; his makeshift alarm serves for what may pass through and obscure that yolky shade of tranquil consistency. he’s pictured it in his mind countless times already throughout the course of this rendezvous: something approaches the door. it has footsteps that are human in design but not quite bearing the same cadence ones would make in stride. irregular silence follows after- movements that are unsure, yet calculating at the same time. something that knows what its doing, but doesn’t want to present itself just yet. an “abandoned step”, they call it. it’s the only way he can explain it to himself. it’ll sound like someone was walking, was planning to walk farther, then suddenly stopped. jiang was right: he’s smarter than he lets on.  

 ev waits. he reminds himself to count each amount of sentences well before responding, down to the word choice. it doesn’t matter what we talk about. he’ll want to know. he hates being left out of things, one second too long and he’ll know something is going on, without him. which is why the walls have ears. they can’t risk waking him up. he waits and stares, pausing before responding, timing a reply. wanting rain to mask this secret he’s kept stowed away for months. the walls have ears.

 “ I’ve seen his sister. “  lightning explodes. the room is fully visible, nightmarishly, for a flash. jiang figure remains fixed on his mind long after the light passes and the thunder rolls, vanishing under the shadows once more. nothing was behind him. the door hasn’t opened. ev glares through the smoke. shapes emerge, then vanish, then emerge again.

 outside he hears a harsh snapping sound, then several after. wood crackling. smoke. sparks. hissing, silence. rain comes down harder against the roof and droplets find their way into his lap. it’s darker now--colder, too, and ev surmises by the unforgiving hand of none other than irony itself that it had been something disruptive enough to wipe out an entire block’s worth of electricity: a telephone pole. unfazed, he swipes his thumb along the grooves of a lighter for it to sharply ignite with a click. across loosened shadows, the contours of a flame’s light drowning them both in a haunting glow. only his mouth, eyes, and bits of his face were visible. “ I’ve seen  everything. Things he shouldn’t tell people-- where he came from, his past, his house. His family pictures, scattered underneath piles of shit; couldn’t tell which was trash and which were just animal carcasses underneath more shit. He doesn’t want anyone to touch it either, got mad at me once for moving bird bones off of a fucking windowsill. Told me about you, about ‘Kageru’-- how you’re supposed to be dead,” ev pauses. he seems to ponder. 

 “ How everyone’s supposed to be dead.” 

  a hooked edge smile curves around his teeth. there is no joy to it, no pleasure in the knotted rage buried inside of his belly and the grit of his furious teeth. a sad band of ghosts reside here now, hollow like a cored apple. there is a familiarity inside of it all he can’t recognize yet, a cold mirror from years ago with arms lashed tight to his ribs now figuring his structure today. dead, yet not quite, but something remains. he knows this was what he once was, outside the warm steam of organs serving as the womb he birthed from. existence doesn’t need to be explained outside of a choice of living, and if not living, simply coming back for none other than the concept of it being possible at all. 

“ When really, it should be him, not you. Any of you. ”  ev adds, an absent pitch to his tone as he forces himself up onto his heels, back to standing. what blood had been pulled from the mangled wound of teeth and flesh now lingers on the bottom curve of the boy’s bandages -- stitched into nothingness, he’s helped a ghost heal the very wounds that might of killed him the first go-around of mortality. then, it hits him, the glaringly obvious revelation this fact precedes him that, yeah, that’s right-- jiang probably did die from something similar to this. he knows what claws digging into eye sockets feel like just as much as he would a broken jaw.

  It’s said that the line between one world & the next is a mirror, an undulating hum between absolute silence & irrevocable chaos. A shimmer, if you will, upon the reflections of being: a curious lapping at the shores of The Veil. 

  Something humans believe to be true, at least. The windows to the dead are never empty, after all. With each mantlepiece comes a token, a gift, a curse, a question; and on occasion- a body. As Ev stares into the muggy glass, encapsulating himself within the muggy confines of the bar-club’s bathroom, both hands are resting against either side of a cracked sink. With only ten more minutes left to his break he figured to confide in her narcotic presence, exhaling wires of smoke against this half-baked magic mirror.

 “ You weren’t afraid because you had no choice but to die, Light.” He says, relaying a fact she already knew, regretting it to be true: love got her killed.  Turned her into a husk; nothing short of god-given hope being a woman diminished into monochromatic shades of decay. “ Because of your brother’s selfishness, and that you have a heart bigger than hatred. ” You are a ghost of your mistakes, and for that..

   THERE WAS A DARKNESS SURROUNDING HER. her aura was distinct and frightening. an ambience of red, enshrouded in mystery, the stink of it all filling his nose and riding down his throat in leaps of nausea. apathy takes the shape of a woman, doe-eyed and quiet, expectantly disparaging as any trap of a predator in disguise would be; no bullshit, he’s got this sixth-sense when it comes to sniffing out the leeches. but it’s not much of a talent as it is something he could waiver for-- far too fucking intimately.

   at least she’s cute.

he imparts no emotion, appearing as slate-like as ever. it physically hurts to sit still. his nerves feel like they’re on fire, itching for limbs to move and shake off unnecessary energy. so it is with distaste in mind that the boy makes eye contact, charcoal eyes reflective of nothing, yet clear with every intention to shift focus onto something less. tense.

 starting from the ground up, he lists off their surroundings, beginning with the orders. for her, it’s a singular slice of cake, simpler in design than what the name gave it credit for on the menu, but cake nonetheless. just, underwhelmingly plain. him, though? he’s a bit of a hypocrite for the cake-bashing since there’s nothing to present but a measly glass of water. condensation has taken over what little ice is left bobbling at the top of an untouched drink, so there’s not much to enjoy anymore. maybe since, he was waiting for her to .. go first? 

  “ ..Not hungry? ”

 what kind of question was that? what the fuck? he guesses it’s to really distract himself, since if his eyes went up any further she’d totally notice him staring at her rack. and, christ- he feels like a freak just for even considering to humor the notion of utter douchebaggery right off the bat. she seems so nice, too-- so.. what even is there to say ?

  “ You can.. have some of my water, if you want?” Holy shit. “-- If you don’t have anything else to drink, that is. Since I wasn’t planning on touching it anyways. ” 

     WHAT IS SPECIAL AND WHAT IS SACRED IN HIS PITEOS WOE? but only you–you and what you do, what you mean when i nestle you inside my rib cage, beating in pace of what i cannot replace. for love he could do it all, see his endurance to the ends of the earth for a single sliver of it, however cold and however harsh. ev is no exception; adam will weather his every aspect, his unabashed aggression, his prodding as if the man is a zoo animal, his smoke stained bite behind every word. to never be lonely. to never need. anyone will do. even you.

     “they’re not scales, and i’m not a fuckin’ lizard!” with a boom in his voice laden with early blooming rage, he yanks himself against ev’s strong grip, attempting to pull himself free. the friction causes more pieces of dark, hardened plates to crack from his body and hit the floor, blood beading and sending a shock wave of pain through his nerves. he hisses under his breath, relaxing his pull and surrendering to the hold, not wanting anymore. ev’s hand smears with his grunge and he looks at it with annoyance, yet not without embarrassment.

     “it’s just… it’s just changing, alright? it happens sometimes. i can’t do anything about it.” he quickly shifts back to his inherently sheepish nature, his arm limp and lips pursed. his body shakes like a tree in the wind, snapping from the inside out like it’s been struck by lightning. pieces of him shift and fall, dirtying the floor as the moments pass. blood continues to run and he furrows his brows, muscles tensing all the while. adam looks at ev with his ever present frown. “let go already. i’ll handle it.”

 you can’t do much about anything, can’t leave yourself alone without falling apart, can’t tell the difference between love and loss, you can’t   —  no. you can, idiot. a well-placed glare sits in silence to his woes, cold and shiftless. letting adam go through the motions of his own stubbornness, ev’s brows furrow before he speaks again, yanking him closer.

 “ I’m not letting go. ” he replies, forcing steady eye contact. there’s a finality in his voice that’s low enough to pitch into a growl, but it doesn’t. he wants this exchange to be treated like a secret, whispering it to the other as his face is centimeters short of pressing into his forehead. “Because, What are you going to handle if it’s already too late to handle, Adam?” ev asks, letting the silence emphasize a lack of response. there’s one last moment of time to swallow the way his face wants to wear a bitter smile as his lips spit a sarcastic truth, but instead — he squints.

 only raises one hand – half to keep focus, half for closing the lack of distance it has with the mangled issues of his face, gently caressing him. it’s a rehearsal of touch uncannily tender as it is inherently robotic in nature, uncaringly caring.   “ No normal person would want to keep feeling like this. Look-- ”